


On the Side of Free Will

by AngstandPizzaRolls



Category: Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Humor, Identity confusion, M/M, Mustache twirling, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Season/Series 12, Romance, Temporary Character Death, emotional almost porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstandPizzaRolls/pseuds/AngstandPizzaRolls
Summary: Sherlock Holmes never believed in fate. He believed all such spirituality was a solace for the weak minded and desperate. Then he is dropped in the middle of an impending apocalypse and he and John must redefine their world after they discover their lives so far have all been according to someone else’s plans.Sam and Dean are experts on fighting fate after facing down the end of the world at their own hands and overcoming. When they find themselves on the outside of the newest apocalypse, they just don’t know how to stay away. Fate has set her sights on a new unfortunate pair, but the Winchesters are unable to let her forget about them whether they like it or not.Destiny took everything from Merlin once. It gave him the other half of his soul and then ripped it away. Now, The Once and Future King has been reborn and with him a new destiny threatens them. It is prophesied that Arthur will bring hell to earth. With help, they might just escape their destiny.Unlikely friendships are formed, and six heroes save the world and each other as three universes collide to give one big F You to Destiny.





	1. The New Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Context: In the supernatural universe, the fic picks up right where season 12 ended. It completely disregards series 4 of Sherlock and starts a few months after the tarmac scene. For the Merlin universe, the story takes place a thousand years after the end of series 5, so all of canon is relevant (not really to the plot but for Merlin and Arthur’s relationship).
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and seek no profit. Unbeta’d and unbritpicked (where it applies) so all mistakes and misplaced Americanisms are my fault :/

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean come face to face with Lucifer's son. Sherlock is given his first solid lead to find Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this on Hiatus so even though Supernatural 13 is on air right now if there are any similarities they’re coincidental. But I doubt there will be because...you know...crossover.

Sam followed those footsteps all the way down the hall. 

There was enough light shining in the nursery window to illuminate the rainbow and cartoon tree on the wall. The name Jack painted there so brightly, by a woman who had so much hope for the little life growing inside her. That mother’s body was beginning to grow cold now. And the child inside her? Not a child anymore. And with the pain of so many losses still stinging in Sam’s chest, he knew for certain that whatever he found in that room wouldn’t inspire the kind of hope in him that it had in Kelly before she died for him. 

He could just make out the outline of a crouched figure in the corner. Arms wrapped protectively around knees. Golden eyes staring back at him. He looked to be the size of a teenager already.

The Antichrist.

“Jack?” Sam edged further into the room, trying to hold back his unease. The child’s gold eyes were boring into him. “Hey, Jack. My name’s Sam. Sam Winchester. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The gold shimmer intensified for a moment until it was so bright Sam had to shield his eyes before it was extinguished. Even without the evidence of his grace, Jack kept staring. Sam relaxed a little, but he knew better than to let his guard down completely. This kid might look harmless now but Sam knew what he was capable of. He’d ripped a hole in the fabric of space-time before he’d even been born. There was no telling what damage he could do now. 

“I don’t want to hurt you Jack, but there are people who do. And I think they might be coming here. We need to go. To keep you safe.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Sam knew the aftershocks of the birth would catch the attention of even the lowest monsters. They were all sitting in the middle of a giant target that every power-hungry creature was now aiming at. They had to leave, immediately. But he was thinking beyond that. Now that Kelly was gone, and Cas. Oh god, Cas. There was nothing stopping them from doing the grace extraction spell. It would be safer for everyone when the Nephilim was powered down. 

He heard a wet, unsteady breath from the shadow of the corner before Jack pushed himself to his feet. Now that he stood in the light, Sam could see his hair was blond, flopping down to obscure blue eyes. He couldn’t have been born more than an hour ago, but he stood tall as a young man, naked and covered in blood. 

“Here.” Sam shrugged out of his jacket, freezing and then moving again more slowly when the abrupt movement startled him. He stepped toward him, holding the jacket in front of himself as an offering. Jack let Sam wrap the jacket around him and pulled it tightly around himself when Sam stepped back. Sam smiled encouragingly at him and he could’ve sworn he saw the beginnings of an answering smile on Jack’s lips.

Until the front door crashed open downstairs and Dean’s rough voice bellowed through the house. “Sam!”

Jack staggered back against the wall, eyes flaring gold. Sam flinched as the lights in the room snapped on and glowed blindingly until all the bulbs shattered. “Whoa. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just my brother. It’s just Dean. He wants to help too.”

Golden eyes looked from Sam’s outstretched hand to his imploring face, but there was no other movement from Jack.

His brother burst into the room a few moment’s later, eyes wild, and when he saw the unknown young man, he raised his gun in an instant.

“Dean!” Sam growled. Rushing over, he shoved Dean’s gun down and looked back to Jack to see how far that had set him back. “That’s the baby. Jack.”

Dean turned wide eyes from the young man to his brother. Sam quirked both of his brows, urging his brother to understand his silent message. After a moment’s hesitation, it seemed to sink in and he tucked the gun back into his waistband.

They both looked back to Jack to find him crouched on the floor again. Sam inched over as quickly as he could without startling him, urging him to listen, “We’re here to help you, Jack.”

The gold in his eyes dimmed as Jack watched Sam squat in front of him. Jack leaned forward, eyes desperate and voice shaking, “What’s happening?”

Something softened in Sam at his plea. For the first time, Sam saw what Kelly must’ve known when she thought of her baby, could understand her love for him no matter the consequences. All this time they’d been so focused on the power the unborn child had and ways to stop him or kill him. No one had ever paid attention to the fact that the child was human at its core. Was a human being who was thrust into the world with nothing but enemies and power he probably didn’t know how to control. He didn’t even have the chance to be a child. He was probably terrified. 

It felt natural, suddenly, to hold out a hand for Jack to take. “I’ll explain everything. I promise. But right now, we can’t stay here.”

Jack hesitated, before slipping his hand into Sam’s and letting himself be pulled to his feet. When Sam turned around, leading Jack toward the door, he saw Dean looking at him. There was scowl pinching his features, but Sam ignored that. They could have this fight later. All that mattered right now was getting away from here and keeping Jack hidden. Lucifer may have been gone, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Sam led them quickly down the hall toward the stairs. Jack’s gentle grip on his hand vanished and Sam ground to a halt. Looking around, he saw Jack standing in the door of what was his mother’s room. Sam put a hand on his shoulder and tried to pull him away but Jack shrugged him off. His eyes were locked on the bed and the figure lying there in sheets drenched in blood. Sam watched his eyelashes flutter a second before his whole face collapsed in a sob. 

The sharp stab of empathy pierced through him and as Jack rushed to throw himself at the side of his mother’s corpse, Sam struggled against the torrent of his own loss. He’d lost everyone tonight. Everyone but his brother, who was now at his side, gripping his bicep.

“We don’t have time for this,” Dean grumbled lowly. 

“ _You_ drag a son away from her dead mother’s side, then.” Sam whirled on Dean, anger flaring and abruptly fizzling out as he saw the glimmer of tears in Dean’s eyes. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam choked, tears threatening to crash over him. 

“Don’t.” Dean snapped, shaking him once roughly. And when he repeated himself with a  curt “we don’t have time for this”, it sounded like a plea. 

A single nod and Sam approached Jack. His trembling shoulders were the only part of him Sam could see until he got close enough to see his face buried against Kelly’s neck as he sobbed. 

“Jack, I’m sorry.” Sam tried but he didn’t seem to hear him. “Jack, we…we have to go.”

Jack’s muffled voice answered him. Sam leaned closer, straining to make out the words. “What?”

Jack sat up, tears still trickling down his cheeks as he studied his mother’s face. “I said that’s not my name.”

“What’s your name?”

Jack looked up at him and Sam found himself bracing for hard news. Some of the tension left him when Jack shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Sam said, trying to ignore the absurdity of the situation so he could stay calm for the kid. “Do you mind if we call you Jack until you figure it out?”

Jack was looking at his mother again as he nodded. 

“Okay. Good.” Sam wasn’t sure what else to say. He looked back toward the doorway where Dean was standing for help or a reprieve, but Dean just hardened his stare. “Jack, I know this is hard. Trust me, I get it. Better than most. But if we don’t leave now, a lot more people could die.” 

It seemed to take a monumental effort for Jack to pull away from Kelly, but when he did, they made it outside to the Impala without any more trouble. They were four hundred miles away before Dean finally agreed it was safe enough to stop.

They settled into a motel and Jack fell asleep on one of the beds as soon as he laid down. Dean set to warding the room with every protection spell they had ever come across. Sam helped him until they ran out of space on the walls to write with blood and chalk. Then Dean collapsed into a chair at the rickety little table in the corner with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Sam stood listlessly at the foot of the empty bed. He couldn’t imagine sleeping but his body was heavy and slow with exhaustion. “What the hell are we going to do?”

The sound of a gun cocking snapped Sam’s attention back to his brother. Dean had his pistol pointed at Jack’s head.

Sam moved in his line of fire before he could even think about it. “We’re not just going to kill him!”

“Then what do you want to do, huh?” Dean’s eyes narrowed, his tone mocking. “They’re never going to stop looking for him. Are we supposed to just spend the rest of our lives protecting that abomination?”

“No!” Sam shot back, irritation making the word harsher than he’d intended. He wanted so badly to point out that Cas had called the kid an abomination too, right up until the moment he defied heaven and vowed to protect him. But he knew what kind of reaction that would get from his brother and it wasn’t a good one. “I was thinking we could try that grace extraction ritual. We might be able to get him on board, and it might work.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Sam scrabbled for an answer but he came up empty. He hadn’t even gotten that far yet, and he hadn’t expected that he would have to make a plan all on his own. “I don’t know. But we can’t just kill him because it’s easier.” 

“Why not?” Dean shoved to his feet and pushed closer, not lowering the gun. “All this shit is his fault! All the shit he’s going to do! We kill him and it’s problem solved.”

“I know you don’t believe that. We don’t know if those bullets would even work, but even if they did we’re not going to kill him.” Sam shoved at his arm, forcing him to lower the weapon.

“Why not?” Dean shouted.

“Because he hasn’t done anything!” Sam tried to rein in his anger and his next words were much calmer. “He’s just a kid, Dean.”

“A kid with enough angel mojo to set the universe on fire,” Dean said, waving his gun around for emphasis and taking another deep pull of whiskey. It was only a lifetime of familiarity that stopped Sam from flinching. Dean was acting like a lunatic right now but Sam knew he wouldn’t hurt him. 

“They used to say the same things about me.” 

That made Dean stumble. He lowered both his arms and looked at Sam, confusion and frustration warring on his face. “What?”

“I was supposed to lead Lucifer’s demon army, remember? I was destined to be the king of hell.” Sam said. “Gordon tried to have me killed because I was the antichrist.”

Recognition lit up Dean’s face and it soured into a harsh scowl. “That’s not the same thing! We’re dealing with the actual antichrist here!”

“Look, man, I know.” Sam gave a mirthless laugh. “But it is the same thing. This kid hasn’t done anything wrong except be born. We should give him a chance before we condemn him for crimes he hasn’t even committed.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, huh?” Dean huffed out a breath and turned back to the table. He took his seat and dropped the gun on the table with a clatter. “It’s been a long time since you’ve tried to lawyer-talk me.”

Sam’s laugh was genuine then, but with the weight of the night it seemed so out of place that it died on his lips almost instantly. Dean was well on his way to finishing off the bottle and Sam knew better than to try to take it from him. They’d lost a lot tonight. Their mother, Cas. Hell even losing Crowley stung a little. They’d lost everyone.

And they’d gained a devil spawn. 

Sam looked over at Jack, sleeping deeply even through all their shouting. He was wrapped up in Sam’s jacket that barely covered his modesty and there were tear tracks through the blood on his cheeks. Looks like this kid was in the same boat. He’d lost everything before he’d even had it. 

That decided it for Sam. He went over to Dean’s suitcase and dug around until he found Dean’s least favorite tee shirt and a ratty pair of jeans. Jack was closer to Dean’s size than he was Sam’s, a little smaller but these would have to do. He set the clothes on the nightstand and ducked into the bathroom. Walking back to the bed, he realized that Dean was watching his every move. It didn’t stop him. 

He tried to settle himself gently on the bed beside Jack so he wouldn’t wake him and started wiping away at the dried blood with the warm wet cloth he’d retrieved.

“He’s not a stray kitten.”

Sam ignored him, allowing a small smile to settle in. They may have lost everything tonight but they still had each other and they could still do the one thing they did best. Help people.

Jack never stirred as Sam finished cleaning him off and dressing him in the clothes he’d stolen from Dean.

“We’re not keeping him.”

Sam pulled the blankets up to Jack’s chin, and his smile widened because that's exactly what Dean said when he brought Bones back with him from Flagstaff. 

|||

Sherlock let a few melodic notes slip from the strings of his violin before sawing a grating sound to emphasize his displeasure. Mycroft arched a brow from his place in John’s chair, looking was unimpressed as ever. 

A loud snuffle from the sofa made Sherlock cut the note short. He had intentions of playing it until it drove Mycroft from the flat, but a glance at John stopped him. He was sprawled out, deep in the first sleep he’d gotten in almost two days, or he was until the sour sound dragged him to the edge of consciousness. 

Sherlock rushed to the crib in the corner and scooped up little Rosie before she could voice her displeasure. Her cries would be the only thing to pull John from his much needed sleep and keep him from it. She gurgled against his chest and settled in. Only once he’d made sure his guests had fallen back into peaceful sleep did he turn back to his brother, customary scowl in place. 

“I’m not taking the case. I’m not taking any case that isn’t Moriarty. And even if I was, I wouldn’t take it just because it was you who asked.” Sherlock said, voice rumbling as he tried to keep quiet. Rosie nuzzled closer and the little fist she had clutching his shirt tightened. 

“It wasn’t so long ago that I was saving your life.” Mycroft said without bothering to lower his voice. Sherlock’s scowl deepened. 

“By sending me off to die in exile. Yes, I remember.”

Mycroft tensed, seeming ready to argue but he gathered himself at the last moment and shook off the irritation Sherlock was trying to provoke. “This is a matter of grave importance.” Sherlock blustered, nearly interrupting him but Mycroft cut him off before he managed it. “I have sources that believe it will lead you to Moriarty.”

Sherlock stayed silent, trying to decide if it was worth suffering Mycroft’s smug face if it meant a lead on Moriarty, the first any of them have had in months. Mycroft reached into the briefcase at his feet and produced a manilla file. 

Sherlock studied the sigil stamped onto the front of the folder, searched his extensive memory for anything matching it and came up empty. Still it itched in it’s familiarity. A six pointed star, grossly out of proportion. It didn’t match any government agency that Sherlock knew, but where else would Mycroft get a file? he would have to do some research.

“I fear I’ve sheltered you too long. You are a legacy Sherlock. It is time you start acting like one.” Mycroft didn’t elaborate, just left the flat as quietly as he’d entered.

Sherlock was left staring at the file in hand for much too long. He knew that symbol. It was scratching at a door in his mind palace he couldn’t see. 

Laying Rosie back in her crib, Sherlock flopped into his chair and thumbed the file open. There wasn’t much information inside, just a few reports and an antique key tucked into a pocket on the inside. From what he could see there was a child about to be born. The child was a person of interest for many influential players including, Sherlock assumed, Mycroft. There was no explanation or even enough information to piece together why the child was so important, only that wherever this child was, Moriarty would likely be. And the child was currently in the hands of two of America’s more notorious modern serial killers in Lebanon, Kansas.

“Wassat?” 

Sherlock jolted, coming back to the present to realize he’d been staring at that damn sigil. John stood at the edge of the crib, looking rumpled and fuzzy from sleep.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock said, watching John as he scooped up his daughter. “Or a way to find him.”

“Really?” John was suddenly much more awake as he rushed over, dropping the baby into Sherlock’s arms and taking the file. “What is it?”

Sherlock didn’t bother answering. John would answer his own question soon enough. He   turned his attention to Rosie, who was fussing possibly at being jostled so much but more likely at the wet nappy she was stuck in. He stood to change her but John had boxed him in between the chairs as he read the reports in the file. 

“A kid? What does Moriarty want with a kid?”

John looked up and suddenly they were face to face. Sherlock tried not to let his breath catch like it had the habit of doing whenever they were this close. He didn’t have much luck. John’s face was pinched, confusion and frustration. His eyes ran over Sherlock’s face, searching for answers, lingering some places before locking eyes again. 

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. I’ll leave in the morning.” He tried to step around John but the other man stepped in his way, a hand catching his arm.

“I’m going with you.” It was as much a question as it was a declaration. 

Rosie piped up, not tolerating the conversation any longer. Sherlock shrugged her toward his bedroom down the hall and tried to step around John again. He let him go this time but followed close behind. 

Sherlock grabbed the diaper bag off his dresser and laid Rosie out on the bed to change her, keeping his back to John. He didn’t want to have to see it on John’s face when he remembered that he had a family that he would much rather be with than go traipsing across the ocean with Sherlock on a whim. 

“Sherlock you’re not leaving me behind again.” John pressed further into the room, coming to stand beside Sherlock and imploring him to look up with a hand on his arm. “After everything he took from me…”

John’s tongue flashed across his lip and he looked away, seemingly stopping himself from finishing the end of his sentence. He didn’t let go of Sherlock’s arm, though, and Sherlock was trapped by the warmth of his grip. With one hand on Rosie’s chest and the other held against John, Sherlock was caught between the two people he cared about most in the world. Something he never even thought he was capable of. John had done that. He’d forced himself so deeply into Sherlock’s life and his mind that he had no choice. And then he’d brought Rosie into the world and shown Sherlock a side of himself that never would’ve existed otherwise. The side that made him keep a fire in the hearth and made him whisper so that someone else could sleep and made him dream things he shouldn’t about a family he could never have. John had given him everything, so who was Sherlock to refuse him when he said he would rather be across the ocean with Sherlock.   

“Alright,” Sherlock breathed. “But what about her?”

Both men turned their attention to the little baby below them. She was gnawing happily on her fist, oblivious to the tension that was strangling them.

A small smile curled at the edge of John’s lip and he brushed his fingers across her arm. “She can stay with Mary.” 

“Mary won’t like that.” Sherlock said, imagining the woman’s reaction to being told to stay home with the baby.

“No, she won’t.” John let out a rueful little chuckle. “Speaking of, Rosie and I should get home. I’ll need some time to smooth things over with her and get packed. I’ll be here tomorrow morning.” 

“Oh sure,” Sherlock lifted Rosie up and placed her in her father’s arms. “Leave now that I’ve done the dirty work.”

“He sees right through me.” John mock-whispered to Rosie and at the sound of his voice she reached out to touch his face. With one last look back in Sherlock’s direction, John left. Sherlock could hear him gathering his things before the front door clicked closed, leaving Sherlock in silence.

|||

Dean jolted awake with a fuzzy mouth, a splitting headache, and the kind of gnawing emptiness he was always left with when the shock wore off and he realized that another person he cared about was dead because of him. It was nothing new. He wasn’t even surprised to find himself bent over the table laying in a puddle of his own drool. But he nearly fell out of his chair when he cracked a crusty eye open to find Jack staring at him from the other side of the table.

He watched dumbly as Jack spooned some cereal into his mouth and chewed slowly. It was immediately obvious how different the kid was to the one they’d found last night. Him sitting at the table and studying Dean so drolly instead of cowering in the corner for one thing. His body had changed too. He’d lost some of the baby fat in his cheeks and his shoulders had broadened. The kid had aged from a young teenager to a young man overnight. Dean wondered if the rapid aging would stop or if he would just keep aging until he burned through this vessel and had to find a new one. There hadn’t been enough in the lore about archangel Nephilim for Dean to know for sure.

A glance at the beds assured Dean that Sam was sleeping heavily, faint snoring reaching them in the quiet room. He didn’t keep his eyes off Jack for too long though, not trusting the little brat not to smite him just for the fun of it. Sam might see some potential in him, but when Dean looked, all he saw was Lucifer’s son.

He could feel the weight of Jack’s gaze as he smacked his lips, trying to clear some of the unpleasant dryness from his mouth, and rubbed at his aching eyes.

“Your breath is atrocious.”

Dean’s hands dropped and he stared dumbly at Jack, who kept just kept eating. It was the first time Dean had heard him speak above a whisper and the first time he’d been directly addressed. Suddenly Dean’s urge to shoot the kid for the greater good was outweighed by his urge to deck him. 

Of course, his head was still pounding so he didn’t manage a comeback any better than a growled, “What?”

Jack didn’t bother repeating himself, just shrugged and looked down at his bowl.

“Where’d you get that?” Dean asked, gesturing vaguely toward his breakfast.

Jack shrugged again, “I was hungry and it just sort of appeared.”

“Hmhm.” Dean murmured, wishing he could magic himself up some painkillers. “Did any appear for Sam and me?"

“No,” He said and it was caught between a scoff and a laugh.

“Right,” Dean said, reminding himself of all the reasons why punching this kid in his arrogant face was a bad idea. He pushed up from the table and stumbled to the bathroom. He paused at the foot of Sam’s bed and kicked it with a grunt to get him up. When he’d shut himself up in the bathroom, he leaned against the counter and splashed water on his face and around his mouth. He kept his eyes away from the mirror, knowing he’d see his father as much as he saw himself. Hungover and haggard with grief. 

When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Sam sitting on the end of his bed, pulling on his boots. He was talking to Jack who seemed more interested in getting the last drops of milk from the bottom of his bowl. 

“…promised you an explanation.”

“Don’t need one,” Jack said, setting down his bowl. It disappeared before it hit the table.

“You don’t?” Sam straightened, exchanging a concerned look with Dean.

“No, I’ve figured it out.” Jack leaned back in his chair and stretched grandly. “I’m a god.”

Dean couldn’t hold back his harsh laugh. A rough elbow in the ribs from Sam shut him up, but the damage was already done. Jack was glowering at Dean.

“Sort of.” Sam conceded, holding up a placating hand and drawing Jack’s attention away from Dean. “You’re half human and half archangel. You’re a human with angelic grace and that makes you pretty powerful, but you’re not technically a god.”

Dean waited tensely, waiting for Jack’s reaction. If Lucifer Jr. was going to snap, they needed to be ready. But Jack just nodded, seeming to accept Sam’s explanation.

“You said there were people after me.”

Dean felt Sam relax marginally beside him. Jack seemed to trust Sam after last night which made this whole situation bearable. He doesn’t know what they would’ve had to do if Jack put up a fight. 

“Yeah. Angels. They’re afraid of you, of the kind of power you have. Even though you’re only half angel you’re stronger than all of them because your father was an archangel.” Sam hesitated, considering how much to tell him at this point. “And there are Demons who want to use you for your power.”

Sam seemed ready to elaborate about his role as heir to the throne of hell but Jack backtracked before he could. “My father. Who…”

“Lucifer,” Dean said. Better to rip off the band-aid.

Jack just looked at them blankly, the name seemingly meaningless. The kid had mastered language. He even seemed to have a working knowledge of big concepts like divinity and personal hygiene but, Dean was relieved to realize, Jack had no idea about culture or religion. Dean had kind of assumed he’d just downloaded it all when he went from infant to teenager in the span of half an hour, and from the look of it, Sam had too. But Jack was clueless about heaven and hell and his place in all of it.

“Lucifer was…” Sam swallowed, struggling to come up with a way to explain the devil diplomatically when he had been personally tortured by him for over a century.

Dean decided to spare him. “He was evil, Jack. He wanted to destroy the entire world out of spite. He didn’t care about anything but making people suffer.”

Jack just clenched his jaw and nodded. Dean was a little shocked at his cool reaction. If anyone had spoken that way about John Winchester, Dean would’ve knocked all their teeth out and made them eat them. But, he supposed, it would be hard to be loyal to a father he never knew. 

“My father was evil.” Jack nodded again. Squaring his shoulders, he looked Dean right in the eye and asked, “Am I?”

A little piece of Dean broke at that. He’d seen that desperate look before, that fear, in Sam’s eyes. He’d been asking that question since he found out he was infected with demon blood and he’d been asking that question ever since with that same fear in his eyes. Hell, ever since the mark Dean had been wondering that of himself. 

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe this kid wasn’t inherently evil, just because of what was in his blood. And Dean had to admire the courage he showed in asking at all.

“If you would’ve asked me a week ago? Hell, I was ready to kill you last night-”

Sam jumped in before Dean could say anything else. “We don’t think so. At least, not anymore.” At this, he shot Dean a sour face and Dean shrugged an apology.

Jack let this settle in silence. Dean sort of felt bad for dropping all this weight onto the kid’s shoulders but they all had their own shit to deal with. It wouldn’t do any of them any good to baby him. 

“Okay,” Jack said with such authority that the whole issue was put to rest. “What do we do now?”

“We gotta hit the road soon,” Dean said, and Sam nodded his agreement.  

“I need to take a shower before we go. I saw a diner across the street. One of you can get food while the other packs the car and we’ll be gone within the hour.” Jack stood decisively and strode toward the bathroom, not accepting any protest. Sam and Dean stood dumbfounded. They weren’t used to getting bossed around.

Dean bristled, wanting to disobey just to spite the little brat, but it was a good plan as any. And when Sam disappeared with the promise of returning with pancakes, there really wasn’t anything else for Dean to do except throw their bags in the trunk. Except, packing the car took a grand total of two minutes and when he was done, he sat in Sam’s place at the foot of the bed, waiting for the others to come back.

As much as he’d been trying to avoid it, all alone with nothing to distract him, his thoughts turned to last night. He could call it a win. Lucifer was trapped in an alternate reality without the strength to zap back. Lucifer was off the board and that’s what they’d wanted all along. But Cas was dead and Mom was trapped on the other side of space-time either dead or being tortured as thoroughly as Sam had been in the cage. As much as he wanted to save her, damn everything else and do whatever it took to get her back, he knew he couldn’t. They couldn’t risk bringing Lucifer back with her or whatever new flavors of hell were on the other side of that portal. 

They’d made that mistake before. They’d made it again and again until they’d almost ended the damn universe. So no matter how much he wanted to, Dean knew he couldn’t save her and that was worse than anything. There was no hope this time, no “Winchesters find a way” attitude to carry them through. They need to grow up. Dean could accept that. He just didn’t think it would hurt this much.

Sam came back to the room saddled down with bags, took note of Dean's face slumped in his hands and he tried to talk to him as he set the food out on the table. “Hey man, I got pancakes the way you like them. But I got eggs and bacon and sausage too because I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for or if Jack would be hungry.”

Dean didn’t respond, barely even heard him as he blinked tears onto the carpet between his spread feet. 

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean felt Sam drop onto the mattress beside him and there were hands on his shoulder and his arm. 

“They’re really gone, Sammy.” Dean hated the way his voice broke but didn’t try to stop it. Sam’s hand was rubbing his back and he was murmuring meaningless comforts. The “I know”s and “I’m sorry”s and “It’ll be okay”s.

“We should leave,” Dean said, shrugging away from Sam’s hands and turning to look at him fully for the first time since he entered the room. 

“What?”

“Before we get too wrapped up in this new mess. Let’s just leave the kid behind and go home,” Dean said. It felt right, even as he said it. Like this was the only way the two of them were going to make it out alive. “Let’s shut ourselves in the bunker and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. We deserve a break. We’ve earned it.”

Sam didn’t respond, just wrapped his arms more firmly around Dean and tried to pull him into a hug. Dean struggled as much as he could in his state, but it wasn’t much. “I know you don’t mean that.” 

“The fuck I don’t.” Dean snapped, jerking to get away. Sam let him go but kept a firm grip on his shoulders. 

“That’s not who we are.”

Dean swallowed back that massive lump of tears that swelled in his throat. His brother was right, or course he was. But he was missing the point. As if sensing his growing agitation, Sam let him go when he pulled away to stand. 

“It’s too dangerous. Sam I,” Dean’s words choked him and he was glad his back was to him or he never would’ve been able to spit the words out. “I can’t lose you again, Sammy. Not you too.”

Dean held still as he felt Sam come up in front of him. He was too busy fighting back the swell of pain and loss and fear to fight anymore when Sam folded him into his arms until Dean’s forehead was resting against his chest and he could talk calmly into his ear. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean.”

He fisted his hand in Sam’s shirt and bit back the frustration that was trying to lash out. The embrace was grounding and he didn’t want to sabotage this. It took him back to just a few days before in the library when he had gotten Mom back and Sam wrapped them both in his big arms. It was family, safety, home. 

Even standing there alone in the circle of Sam’s arms, he felt like he could breathe again. So he leaned his forehead against Sam’s chest, breathed his brother’s familiar smell, and remembered what it felt like to have even just a little peace.

A spike of guilt pierced through him, but he breathed through it. He was the big brother. He was supposed to be the one to protect Sam, to comfort Sam. Maybe he still could. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and rubbed soothingly at his back. 

Sam’s breath shook as he spoke and a few stray tears tapped on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s you and me, buddy. Just like it’s always been.”

The hug ended gradually. Thank god neither of them made it awkward by trying to pull away before the other was ready. They just sort of let go, both looking a little more ragged than when it started but better off for it.

Sam drifted toward the food, unpacking it slowly. He didn’t try to hide it as he wiped his eyes but Dean was more subtle about it. 

“This never happened,” Dean said and Sam laughed, the sound wet with shed tears but happy. 

“Whatever you say, man.”

|||

Mycroft had gotten them a private jet. John had managed to muster up some gratitude even though Sherlock was as petulant as ever. It was a long flight and he didn’t want to imagine being cramped with a hundred others. This way he only had to deal with Sherlock which was in itself a blessing and a curse. 

Sherlock had never been easy to get along with, even in the best of times, but ever since Rosie was born, it was like a spark blinked out in him. His boisterous insults had turned to passive aggression. His insatiable curiosity fizzled out. John knew that things would change when the baby was born, he’d jut had no idea it would have such an effect on Sherlock. John had been expecting to be left behind as Sherlock chased bigger and more exciting cases without him. Instead, Sherlock’s near-frantic lust for crime had been extinguished altogether. He had grown quiet.

He doted on Rosie more than even Mary did, always caring for her or offering to. If John hadn’t known any better, he would’ve said Sherlock had gone soft.  

He seemed…well if not happy then at least content. Not that John would know for sure. Sherlock would barely speak to him anymore. It’s like he’d completely lost all interest in John if he’d even had any to begin with. He didn’t need an audience now that he wasn’t taking cases, and he didn’t need someone to yell at him to clean up after himself now that they weren’t living together. The flat was cleaner nowadays than John had ever seen it. Not a trace of his usual grotesque experiments anywhere.   

It was great, this sudden change in Sherlock. It meant that John no longer had to worry about Sherlock running mindlessly into danger every night, which was something that had concerned him from their very first night together.

But that meant that John wasn’t running into danger anymore either. He was a father now. He didn’t have the luxury of being that reckless and the sane part of his mind told him that he shouldn’t even want to. But he wanted to. He missed the chase, the weight of his gun in his hand, Sherlock’s racing mind driving them to the heart of the case. He missed seeing Sherlock’s half-crazed eyes shining with excitement, the sound of his thundering voice tangling a web of words. He missed flying right to the edge of being alive, intensity and toeing the edge of the cliff they were both ready to throw themselves over. 

He missed the Sherlock he used to know. The one who he would chase to the ends of the world, not the one who barely looked him in the eye anymore. The one who saw him as nothing more than an afterthought.

So John had practically begged to come along on this search for Moriarty. He would’ve begged, John realized, if that’s what Sherlock wanted from him. He would do anything for just a taste of what they used to be and that scared the hell out of him.

John felt like he was leaving a storm back in London, and worse, he didn’t care. Mary had been furious at being left behind. They fought for nearly an hour about who was better equipped to handle a mission like this and he’d ended up sleeping on the sofa again. 

He tossed and turned all night and he rose before the sun because he couldn’t sleep, anxious that Sherlock was going to leave him behind if he didn’t arrive soon enough. He spent a few minutes with Rosie when he had his bags together at the door. She was sleep-muddled and quiet and he had a hard time putting her back in her crib when it was time to leave. Missing her would be the worst part of leaving. 

He hadn’t said goodbye to Mary, just another reason for her to be furious. When all was said and done and the front door closed behind him, John didn’t even feel that bad. Mary had done more than her fair share of shitty things since they met that John has had to forgive, not to mention the way she’d been disappearing more and more since Rosie was born. After everything they’d been through, she still refused to give him a straight answer about where she goes when he asked. 

It was his turn now. Mary’s ire be damned because he’d actually told her where he was going, a courtesy she never afforded him. He’d been so wrapped up in her and Rosie for so long. It was time for him to get back to what he did best. 

John glanced at his watch and then to Sherlock. The man had been brooding out the window for the better part of an hour. There was still nine hours left of the flight and John refused to spend the rest of it like this. He cleared his throat to get Sherlock’s attention and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “So the case.”

Sherlock didn’t even twitch, but John decided he must be listening because…well because it was easier than acknowledging he wasn’t. “The child will lead us to Moriarty. We’ll have to watch it, but should we stop him if Moriarty makes a move for the child? What does he want with it?”

“I have my suspicions.” John hadn’t been expecting an answer, had been expecting Sherlock’s full attention even less. When it seemed like he wasn’t going to elaborate any more, John decided it was best to move on. 

John dragged forward everything he remembered from the file yesterday in his mind, trying to come up with all the information he could about the whereabouts of the child and who it was with. No doubt Sherlock had the entire file xeroxed into that brain of his. “Right, well we can’t just leave a baby with those killers. Those Winchesters.”

“What? Why not?” And John couldn’t believe he was actually proud to see Sherlock’s confusion turn to frustration then understanding. What was basic human decency shouldn’t take that long to process through anyone’s mind, but John had to acknowledge that Sherlock wasn’t just anyone. The fact that he understood John’s point at all was a testament to how far he had come. 

“What about the mother? Where is she?”

“Dead,” Sherlock said bluntly, as uninterested as if he was discussing the weather. No, John had seen him more enthusiastic about the weather when it pertained to a case. “Mycroft confirmed she died in childbirth last night.”

“Christ.” John breathed, a shallow sympathy he still observed even though he suspected he had become as numb to death as Sherlock at this point. Still, he could muster enough concern for the newborn in the arms of murderers. He missed Rosie then, bright flare of longing and protectiveness that spike through him before he pushed it down.

“Yes well…” Sherlock passed an uncomfortable moment in silence before returning to a more lively state. “I’m curious to discover what it is about the child that makes some of the most dangerous men in the world so interested. I suspect its parentage. The mother was inconsequential, a political secretary.”

“And the father?”

A predatory grin split across Sherlock’s face slowly, “After some research and a conversation with a particularly evasive Mycroft this morning, I’ve come to the conclusion that the father is none other than Jefferson Rooney."

“The president?”

Sherlock’s smile lost its malicious edge and all that was left was the excitement.

John leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t say he was exactly surprised to hear the president had a bastard child but he certainly hadn’t expected this the be the turn their case took. He felt some excitement but it was only a ghost of what Sherlock was exuding. The last time they had been involved in something so political, Magnusson, Sherlock had ended up in the hospital with a bullet in his chest. 

“So that makes sense why Moriarty wants the kid. For leverage or blackmail. But where do the Winchesters fit in?”

“They must be working for Moriarty,” Sherlock said. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s employed a serial killer.”

“Right.” John nodded along. “So we definitely need to get this baby away from them.”

“Not until they lead us to Moriarty.” John wanted to argue but he knew the look on Sherlock’s face. He knew it was useless. 

At this point, John would take what he could get, and the enthusiasm Sherlock was exuding at what was waiting for them on the ground was more than enough. It was the first time in too long that Sherlock smiled big and manic, the way he only did for a case. And if that smile wasn’t nice, and no one could accuse him of that, at least it was genuine.

The rest of the flight passed uneventfully. When they landed in Kansas City, it was the sun was shining on a cheerful morning but John was ready to sleep until dark. He’d caught a few hours on the plane but it was just as restless as his sleep at home had been, so he was thoroughly exhausted. After the four hour drive from Kansas City to Lebanon in a cramped rental car, he wanted nothing more than to get a hotel room and tackle the case when they were better rested and more informed.

Sherlock conceded the hotel room but only to stash their luggage. As soon as they had dumped their suitcases on one of the beds and John sat down, Sherlock was halfway out the door. John had no choice to follow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time to watch our favorite fictional worlds collide!
> 
> Thanks for Reading  
> Love it? Hate it? Let me know in the comments below.


	2. A Brave New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam meet some unlikely characters.

Most of the weight of the morning had melted off of Dean when he got behind the wheel of his baby and turned up some Zeppelin. With the open road in front of him and Sam sitting shotgun, things didn’t seem so hopeless. He didn’t feel so cornered like this. He could go anywhere and do anything. 

Even the elephant in the backseat wasn’t so oppressive. Jack had been staring out the window probably lost in his thoughts. They’d definitely given him enough to think about this morning. 

He blamed the fact that he wasn't so weighed down that Sam’s words hit him like a kick in the face. “When we get Jack settled in at the bunker, we should go back and burn Cas’s body.”

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened and Sam must’ve noticed because he hurried to say, “It’s not like he’ll become a ghost or anything, but he deserves a hunter’s funeral, you know?”

“We’re not burning him.” Dean flexed his hands as they started to ache.

“Why not?” 

Dean hesitated before he answered. He wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or stubbornness but he’d never intended to share this little fact with his brother and he was still clinging to that. But Sam wasn’t the kind of guy to let something like this go. He’d prod and bitch until Dean had to tell him or shoot his own brains out for annoyance. “He’s gonna have a hard enough time coming back without us destroying his vessel.”

“ _Dean,_ ” The word was drenched in so much pity Dean couldn’t let him finish.

“Don’t ‘Dean” me. How many times has he come back from the dead?” And yeah, Dean knew he’d been stabbed in the back with an angel blade, one of the only sure death sentences they knew for angels but that didn’t matter.

“Almost as much as us.” Sam’s sour lemon face of sympathy was softening and it eased some of Dean’s discomfort.

“Yeah, so shut up man. Guy’s a Winchester. He’ll be back.” Dean insisted, stern face directed at the road. He could feel it, the specter of their mom hanging there in the silence between them. They couldn’t go after her and they both knew it. Dean wasn’t about to bring it up for another sharing and caring session. He’d had his fill for the month.

“Yeah okay.” A lifetime with the guy told Dean that tone meant Sam wasn’t done with the conversation. He was conceding for now because he knew he wouldn’t gain any ground in the mood Dean was in. “We should still go back for his body. Put him on ice sooner rather than later.”

Dean shifted in his seat but didn’t respond. Now probably was probably the best time he could let Sam in on the fact that Cas’s body was actually already in the trunk, but he didn’t want to say anything in front of the kid. Plus he was still feeling a little patronized, a little defensive of his plan. Sam had agreed to go along with what Dean thought was best but he’d said it in that way that parents use to placate their kids so they have a temper tantrum in the middle of Walmart.

He would tell Sam later when he’d had a chance to really think about Dean’s plan and realize that he was right. 

Sam didn’t try to talk to him after that, but just in case, Dean cranked up the radio until he couldn’t even hear himself think.

Several hours later, Jack reached between them across the front seat to turn the music all the way down before demanding they stop for a bathroom break. Dean couldn’t believe the kid’s audacity but when he turned a wide-eyed clenched-jaw look at his brother, Sam was biting back a laugh. Traitor. 

He waited another half an hour just to spite the kid before he pulled off the interstate into a run-down gas station. There was a brightly lit traveler’s center down the road but he ignored it. The gas station might be grimy and have a weird smell but nobody looked too closely or asked too many questions in a place like this. 

Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them over to Sam. “I gotta take a leak. You fill up the tank and I’ll keep an eye on his royal highness over there.”

Sam peered over his shoulder where Jack already stood outside the car stretching. That stupid smirk was back in place when he looked at Dean. “Dude take it easy. All he did was turn down your obnoxious music.”

The traitor actually laughed as Dean tried to kill him with a scowl. He was reaching for the handle but paused when Dean spoke up. “You know, I’ve had all kinds of weird creatures in the back seat with all kinds of weird monster-y demon-y powers, including you. And not one of them has ever tried to turn down my tunes.”

Sam looked back at Jack and there was a more serious note to his speculative tone. “Considering he’s the most powerful person in heaven, hell and on earth, I think he’s entitled to.”

“Well don’t tell _him_ that.” Dean shoved out of the car and the door’s groan echoed his own as his joints popped and muscles complained. He was getting too old for this shit.

“C’mon kid,” Dean called and Jack followed him inside with a word.

At the chime of the welcome bell, the cashier looked up from where she’d been flipping through a magazine. A scruffy old guy who was probably a bum watched them through the glass door of the liquor cooler he had propped open as they made their way toward the restroom.

The hair on the back of Dean’s neck was standing on end and his hunting instincts flared to life. If it was his call, he would’ve left, right then. He would’ve gotten in the car, bladder be damned, and put this place in the rear view mirror because it was bad news. But it wasn’t up to him because Jack was already in the bathroom and Dean couldn’t very well drag him out now. So he went about his business as fast as he could and waited outside the door, one hand on the hilt of the demon knife and the other inches away from his gun.

He was ready for the demon that came at him from behind. He dispatched the demon hiding in the trucker meatsuit with a knife to the gut. When the body crumpled, it collapsed against him and forced him to stumble back. What he wasn’t ready for was the Cashier to lunge over the counter, black eyes flashing, and pin him while he was still wrestling with the dead body. 

“Where’s the boy?” She hissed, forearms crushing against his throat.

“Go to hell.” He managed to choke out. With a sharp jut of his hips, he managed to topple her off of him. He pushed up, scrabbling for the knife that had fallen from his grip but she reached it just as the restroom door swung open and Jack rushed out.

The demon was behind him before Dean made it to his feet, one arm wrapped around Jack’s torso, the other holding the knife at his throat. Dean would’ve laughed if there wasn’t a drop of blood streaming down Jack’s neck. He wondered what this demon’s boss would say if they knew she was threatening the person she was sent to find. 

Dean took a step forward ready to make a move but the demon gave a wordless protest and the knife bit deeper into Jack’s skin. Dean was glad to see the kid wasn’t scared. He looked more quietly pissed off at being caught than anything else. The demon knife probably couldn’t kill him, being the son of an archangel and all, but it could kill Dean. So when the demon made her threat, Dean stopped moving. 

“We want the baby, Winchester.” She insisted. “Tell me where it is or your little angel friend here gets fried.”

Jack shot a questioning look at Dean but he shrugged. Now wasn’t the time to answer questions.

“Where-”

“ácnyse!” Behind Dean came a shout in a language he didn’t recognize. He spun, gun drawn on instinct to see the old bum with a hand stretched in front of him. His dark eyes flashed gold and the sound of the demon choking filled the room.

Thick black smoke fell from her mouth like liquid, rolling off her chin and down Jack’s chest. The smoke pooled at their feet until there was nothing left inside her. Another spell from the old man, and the smoke crackled with orange sparks before dissipating and leaving nothing but a scorch mark on the floor. The body of the cashier slumped to the ground behind Jack. Dean had retrieved the demon knife and had his gun trained on the old man before she landed.

The harsh jangle of the front bell and a hulking body rushing in to meet drew Dean’s aim and he was a second away from firing a devil’s trap bullet before he recognized his brother’s frantic face. Sam, who must’ve seen the action through the window and come running, had his own gun raised at the witch. 

“Oh no. Don’t thank me. I only saved your lives.” The old man grumbled. He took hold of the bottle of whiskey stashed in his armpit and twisted it open roughly. He took a long swig before looking at them again.

“Who are you?” Sam’s voice was calm and authoritative, the kind of voice that got answers right away but the old man just rolled his eyes. 

“What’s your name?”

Dean tensed when he moved, but the old man just reached up and took ahold of his skullcap and pulled it off. The wisps of long white hair it had been holding back vanished, his hunched figure straightened out a bit, and suddenly they were looking at a young man. The guy looked even younger than Jack but Dean knew from that experience alone that looks could deceive. 

“I go by Emerson these days.” 

“But what’s your name?” Dean demanded. There was power in a name and he wasn’t going to let this guy lie to them by omission. 

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Emerson said.

Dean’s lip quirked up in a smirk. If he had a nickel for every time someone said that. “Try us.” 

They watched him reach back and set the bottle on the counter along with a bag of chips he’d had tucked under his other arm. Once he’d unburdened himself, Emerson took a step toward them. 

“These are witch killing bullets,” Sam warned, tightening his stance and inching forward. “Special recipe.” 

Emerson took another step, unconcerned. 

Sam tensed, an inch away from firing when Jack threw himself forward and shoved Sam’s arms away. “Wait!”

Sam studied Jack, who to his credit didn’t shy away. He met Sam’s critical eye with determination and spoke calmly. “I don’t know why but I feel like I know him. I…”

Jack looked at Emerson for a long time before he finished, sounding as surprised as Dean and Sam felt. “I trust him.”

Dean and Sam shared a look, deciding together to indulge Jack’s instincts.  They were both wary as they lowered their weapons. Anyone Jack felt a connection with could likely be connected to Lucifer. Yet the witch killed the demon. It didn’t automatically exclude him from the Lucifer fan club but it reflected well on him. 

When Dean looked back at the witch, he saw such blatant adoration he had the urge to stand in front of Jack to shield him from it. Emerson was looking at Jack the way Sam looked at ancient lore books in obscure languages and the way Dean looked at Baby. 

“You were at the diner this morning,” Sam said suddenly and Dean itched to raise his gun again. 

Emerson didn’t tear his gaze away from Jack, didn’t seem to hear him at all.

“You following us?” Dean asked, angling his body between them. 

“Yes.” 

Dean scoffed at how blunt it was, and, beside him, Jack laughed.

“Who are you?” Jack stepped forward, past the line of Dean and Sam’s protective bodies. Dean saw Sam shift, probably itching to pull him back again, but they let him go. Emerson wasn’t making any moves toward them. He just watched with those eerily bright, hopeful eyes as Jack approached him.

“An old friend,” Emerson said. A broad smile split across his face, and for all Dean was an expert at reading people, it was genuine. He relaxed marginally, knowing well enough not to trust the guy straight off, but he could sense that he wasn’t going to be attacking anytime soon.

“I know a spell. It’ll help you get your memories back.” All the urgency that had seeped from Dean snapped back in a second when Emerson started talking of ingredients and rituals. 

“Hey, whoa. Nobody’s casting any spells.” Dean darted forward and yanked Jack back by the bicep while Sam covered him. Jack fought out of his grip but didn’t make any moves to return to Emerson. He was eyeing the witch too, if not with distrust than at least discomfort.

“It wouldn’t hurt anyone-” Emerson was already saying, but Dean cut in. He didn’t  have any patience for his lies. “What are you after, huh? You want his power?”

“I’ve got plenty of my own thanks.” Emerson said, eyes flashing gold. The sincerity in his face snuffed out and darkened into something terrifying as the ground began to shake. Dean was thrown to the floor. Beside him, Sam went careening into a shelving unit and barely managed to keep his footing, but Jack was steady, whether by his own doing or Emerson’s Dean didn’t know. Lying there winded, he had the perfect vantage point to watch the lights overhead explode in a rain of sparks.

The chaos cleared just as quickly as it had come. The intensity faded from Emerson and he shrugged, looking more than a little smug. “Calm down, Dean. I don’t want anything.” 

Dean felt a jolt go through him at the sound of his name on the stranger’s lips. 

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Emerson took a deep breath and his next words came out a lot less clipped and a lot more serious. “I’ve been following your progress since you stopped Lucifer. The first time. I know about all you’ve been through and all the good you’ve done.”

Dean shifted, unsure what to make of that information. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam glance his way. They had people lining up around the block to tell them about every mistake they’ve ever made, every way they’d screwed up by being too stupid, or too reckless, or too selfish. People never called them out on doing good. It had to be some kind of trick. Some kind of manipulation to get on their good side so they let their guard down.

Emerson shifted and the irritation was back in his tone when he said, “And that’s the only reason I let you protect him.”

“Let us?” Sam snarked, stealing the thought right from Dean’s head. 

“Yes, let you. If I wanted to stop you I could’ve done it a thousand times. If I wanted Arthur, I would’ve taken him. Somebody has to look after him-god knows he can get himself into trouble faster than anyone I’ve ever met-but I’ve been a little busy keeping angels and demons off your ass.”

“Bang up job on that.” Jack jerked his head toward the empty bodies on the floor. For a moment, Emerson’s jaw was twitching, and he looked torn between laughing and scowling. 

The moment was entirely too familiar for Dean’s liking. Dean made another silent decision with Sam and spoke up for Jack’s benefit. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Emerson didn’t try to stop them as Dean and Sam hustled Jack toward the door. Jack was a little reluctant to move, eyes locked on the young man, but he didn’t argue. It wasn’t until they were almost through the door that Jack stopped and refused to take another step forward despite Dean’s not so subtle nudging. “Let him come with us.”

“No way in hell,” Dean said without a moment’s thought because...just no.

“He needs to come with us.” Jack insisted.

Dean’s exasperation made him mute for a moment while he prayed for Jack to outgrow his rebellious teenage phase in the next few seconds. Kid grew like a weed. He didn’t think it was too much to ask. “There’s no way I’m letting some witch strong enough to _kill_ a demon with one word anywhere near you.”

Jack’s features darkened and Dean had a few seconds to remember that, yeah this kid was even more powerful and that he could probably rip Dean apart by just blinking, before Sam came to his rescue, saying, “You heard Emerson. He’ll be following us the whole way.” Like that was supposed to be a comfort.

It seemed to appease Jack enough to get him into the car even though he heaved a dramatic sigh before slamming the car door behind him. Dean flinched, but he didn’t try to make a fuss about it, just started the ignition and pulled out of the lot. 

As they drove past the convenience store, they could see Emerson standing just outside the doors watching them go.  

Dean had too much time to think as they drove on. They were a good five hundred miles from the bunker and Sam was passed out in the seat beside him.

All of it seemed too simple. The solution to their biggest problem, which was staring moodily out the window, was one spell away. Getting what they needed to do the spell and convincing Jack to cooperate seemed like daunting tasks but once they were done, that’s it. The antichrist would be human. With God and Amara gone, Lucifer locked away, Crowley dead, the angels finding order back in heaven, Dean felt like he could finally see a finish line for the first time in a very long time. Even this, fighting off demons to keep them away from Jack didn’t seem like an insurmountable task. Especially with a very powerful witch on their side. If he was on their side. 

Dean knew better than to trust anyone who crawls out of the woodwork and promises they’re there to help. He knew better than to trust anyone for that matter who hadn’t bled with him and lost just as much as he had. Damned if the only person left alive at this point who qualified was Sam. No matter what Emerson said or what effect he seemed to have on Jack, Dean was keeping his gun loaded with witch bullets until they could figure out the real reason he was following them. 

He wasn’t sure how to feel about Jack. Dean was willing to defend him because the kind of power he’s supposed to have would be dangerous in anyone’s hands, let alone the wrong ones. 

Sam was attached already. He’d taken the kid under his wing like an aggressive puppy that could be fixed with some TLC. Dean wanted to be able to have the kind of optimism that Sam did about crap like this but he hadn’t had faith in his own brother when he went dark-side. There’s no way he could believe Lucifer’s son could resist the siren’s call of evil. So, needless to say, Dean was tense. He’d agreed not to shoot the kid, but only because it had been Sam who asked. It went against all of his instincts. The last thirty years of training all screaming at him to kill the evil thing and go find the next evil thing. His fingers still twitched toward the hilt of his angel blade when he thought about Jack’s eyes flashing gold, but it was a reflex he was willing to fight against.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe Dean should’ve done what he does best from the jump and they wouldn’t have to worry about any of this mess, but keeping Jack alive made Sam happy. Of all the lessons he’s had to learn the hard way over the years, trusting, really trusting, Sam had been the best one of all. Without each other, they were hopeless, destructive, but together, they could save the frickin’ universe. So maybe he should’ve killed Jack but he was going to trust Sam even if it killed them all. 

Dean drove until Sam convinced him to stop for the night. They probably could’ve driven through the night but neither of them had gotten a lick of solid sleep the night before and there was nothing imminently threatening on their tail. Dean wanted to argue against that point when he pulled into the motel parking lot and he could’ve sworn he saw Emerson lurking in the cab of a parked truck.

He was too run down to keep fighting though. So he let Sam get a room and helped him put up the warding when they got inside, taking special care with the sigils meant to ward against witches. 

When the last of it was finished, Dean watched Sam slump onto the bed that Jack hadn’t already sprawled over. Sleep in an actual bed sounded like a blessing after the last couple of days but something was still tugging at the edge of his mind. “One of us should keep watch.”

“Is that what you were doing last night? When you got so drunk you passed out at the table?”

“Shut up.” Dean kicked the bed frame and Sam grunted as the bed jolted under him.

“It’s fine, man,” Sam said. He was already curling himself around a pillow, eyes drifting shut. He kept his boots on, Dean noted, and his gun was still in his waistband. “We warded. Nothing’s getting in here.”

Sam had a point. Or maybe Dean was just so tired he was willing to accept any justification to get some shut-eye. He settled on the bed beside Sam, shoving him out of the way so he could have enough room to lay down. It had been so much easier to share these little beds when they were kids. Two overgrown adult men barely fit the mattress even as they were pressed up against each other’s sides tip to toe. Dean glanced over and saw that Sam’s leg was hanging off the edge of the bed, foot planted flat on the floor and he had to laugh.

“What?” Sam mumbled, quiet in the dark.

“Nothing,” Dean said, still smiling. He must be delirious or something. 

“Go to sleep.” Sam insisted, voice muffled by his pillow.

Dean sighed and he tried to go to sleep. He really did. But his mind was caught the endless loop of thoughts that had tortured him earlier. There was one that echoed louder than all the others. 

“You really think we can trust that guy?” Dean was careful to keep his voice low. He cast a glance toward Jack, but he was still sleeping soundly, mouth hanging open and little snores escaping. It was actually kind of funny.

“No,” Sam answered instinctively. He didn’t open his eyes, but his voice was a lot more aware than it had been a few minutes ago. Sam would stave off sleep and talk him through it as long as it took for Dean’s restless mind to calm. He was a good brother that way, but not so much of one that he wouldn’t whine about it. “It’s two in the morning. Do we really need to have this conversation now?”

“Well we can’t have it in front of you know who.” Dean huffed. “The kid’s got some kind of weird attachment to him and I don’t trust it.”

“He’s not Voldemort. You can say his name, Dean.”

Dean felt a smile pulling at the edge of his lip despite himself. “Shut up, man.” 

“You shut up. Go to sleep.” Sam shifted around on the bed, trying to get into a comfortable position and ended up on his stomach, arms shoved up under his pillow. His face was smushed up and contorted, and Dean suddenly had the violent urge to draw all over it with a sharpie like he used to do before Sam got big enough to kick his ass for it.

“He called him Arthur.” Dean tried to get his thoughts back on track. Sam heaved a sighed. He barely cracked one eye open but he was paying attention. “And the way he was talking, it sounded like he knew him.”

“Maybe he does?” 

“Jack was born like two days ago. And we haven’t let him out of our sight since. How would he know him?”

“I don’t know. Reincarnation maybe?”

“You think?” Dean asked and he felt the bed shift as Sam shrugged. “That’s a pretty eastern idea for all the Judeo-Christian crap we’ve been stuck in the middle of.” 

“Doesn’t mean it’s not possible.”

“What is it with this kid?”

“I don’t know.” Sam breathed with all the confusion and frustration that had been weighing on them both. “From our understanding, when you die, you either go to heaven or hell  permanently.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugged and Sam conceded the point with a nod.

“It’s supposed to be permanent. Anyway, You’d have to be pretty VIP to get reincarnated.” Sam finished his thought and was silent for a few minutes. Dean let him think on it as he stared at the ceiling. He had his own mess to slog through in his mind. When Sam spoke again, his voice was quieter than it had been before and unsure. “Do you think we…?”

“God I hope not,” Dean said without hesitation. Honestly, he couldn’t think of anything worse than another lifetime of this shit. “Can you imagine? Finally getting some damn peace and quiet and then getting dragged back to earth?”

Sam hummed a short acknowledgment, uncertainty still clinging to his tone. “I guess you’re right. When this is all over, it’ll be nice to finally have some rest.”

Dean’s next words were cautious, testing. “Hell’s not exactly a day spa.” 

Sam was silent as he stared at Dean for an unnervingly long time. When he finally responded, he closed his eyes, marking his words with finality. “Neither has done anything so bad we can’t repent. We still have time to make up for it.”

“You really believe that?” Dean was stunned to hear it. He knew Sam had always been the optimist between them, but he hadn’t seen anything but resignation in him for so long, he almost didn’t recognize the man in front of him. 

“For the first time in a long time, yeah.” A bashful smile curled at Sam’s mouth as he met his eyes. “I feel like we finally have a chance here. Once we get rid of Jack’s powers and settle him somewhere they can’t find him, we can get back to normal. We can go back to hunting poltergeists and werewolves. Back to just helping people. Then maybe you’re right. Maybe spending eternity getting on each other’s nerves in heaven won’t be so bad.”

Dean was quiet as he absorbed Sam’s words. A lump swelled up in his throat at the all tentative hope he heard from him. He didn’t know if he wanted to mourn at his brother’s naivety or knock some sense into him. Either way, he couldn’t not break it to him. “Don’t you remember what Billie said? We’re not going anywhere but a deep dark hole.”

Sam bristled and tensed as he shoved up so he was resting on his elbows. “Billie’s dead. There’s no reason to think the other reapers won't do their damn jobs the right way and get us upstairs.”

“No reason?” Dean struggled to keep his voice low, but Sam was getting defensive and it was just a reflex to push back harder. He was stubbornly clinging to hope like he always did, even though they’d been bitten in the ass enough in their lives to know better. “When has anything ever gone our way, huh? What makes you think those other assholes don’t hate us as much as she did?”

The rush of triumph that flooded him as Sam slumped down seeped away just as quickly as it had come. He’d won their little spat, got Sam to see his point of view, but he was quickly reminded that wasn’t something to feel good about. Sam didn’t say anything as he pulled his pillow closer to him and Dean felt like an asshole.

“So Carpe Diem, right? We’ll deal with Jack and I’ll go back to hunting.” Dean wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but it had caught Sam’s attention so he kept bullshitting. “You can, I don’t know, waste the next few years of your life in a classroom and be a lawyer or whatever you’re always yapping about.” Sam gave him a pointed look and Dean felt a twist of amusement on his face. He didn’t know if it was because of Sam’s predictable reaction to his teasing, or if imagining Sam’s future as a civilian was really that satisfying, but either way, he was smiling now and it was hard to stop talking. 

“You can find a girl. Maybe without running over a poor defenseless dog this time.” Sam tried to interrupt him with a scandalized noise but Dean steamrolled him. “Pop out a few rugrats, finally make an uncle out of me.  I can see it too. You rocking a picket fence and a beer gut. Until you die of something so mediocre it’s almost funny, like heart disease.”

“If anyone’s dying of heart disease it’s you Mr. Double Bacon Cheeseburger.”

Dean could hear the teasing in Sam’s voice, but his own had faded. He was getting lost in his own fantasy. To anyone else it would’ve been the most mind-numbingly mundane daydream, but it felt like a fairytale to Dean. “You’d drive a hybrid. And you wouldn’t be like Law & Order or some corporate douchebag. You’d be an environmental lawyer or some shit. Because even though you got out of the life you wouldn’t stop trying to save the world. You’d get what you really wanted out of life because there wouldn’t be another one.”

“Dean…” Sam’s voice was quiet, but there was enough strength, enough intensity in the word to break through his reverie. He didn’t look surprised, or even opposed to the future Dean had spun for him. He just looked sad and Dean didn’t know why.

It wasn’t the first time Dean had said something like this. A few years ago he’d even confessed that this was the only happy ending his life would ever get, Sam having a future, and threatened to put a bullet in Sam’s leg if he tried to get in the way of it. It _is_ the first time he’d ever brought it up when things were actually okay between them. They weren’t fighting, or lying to each other, or trying to save each other, or dead, for the first time in so long. It hurt to think about Sam leaving, about Sam finding happiness somewhere that wasn’t with Dean, when they were finally a unit again, more in sync and connected than they’d been since Sam was seventeen. It hurt, but it was right because when did Dean ever get what he wanted. 

Dean cleared his throat and turned his eyes back to the ceiling, wishing he hadn’t been meeting Sam’s eye through it all. It was a mistake that had probably left him bare and obvious. He was an expert at hiding his emotions but if anyone in the world could see through him, it was Sam.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean.”

“What?” Dean snapped, his irritation from earlier surging. If Sam was arguing with him just to be obstinate-

“We’ll find a way to get around the reapers. I know you don’t believe it but it’s kind of our thing.” The sound of Sam’s sheepish laugh drew Dean’s eyes back to his face. Earnest eyes met his and he knew Sam had seen everything he hadn’t said. “But if there’s a chance we can’t, I’m not leaving. If there’s not an afterlife for us, if this is all we’re getting, I’m going to stay with you.”

A peaceful quiet filled the space between them as they stared, each trying to gauge the other’s thoughts. They were better at it than they should be, so practiced at silent communication as they were. 

Dean felt a hope rising in him he had starved for so long. It was a hope for something his pride wouldn’t let him admit to wanting, but every action he’d made over the years revealed it. Dean would give anything not to be alone. He’d already sold his soul once for it. And even as he was telling Sam to leave and find everything he’d ever wanted since he was a kid, Dean hoped with every selfish part of his tainted soul that Sam wouldn’t go. Every dark part of him wanted Sam to choose him over a life, a family and mediocre happiness because no one ever chose Dean. No one who really knew him anyway.

And then Sam had gone and just said it, everything that Dean wanted, and he’d meant it. It was too much for Dean to handle so he did what he always did when things got too close, too real. He turned it into a joke. “God, you’re such a girl.”

“Bite me.” Sam laughed and shoved his arm hard. But Dean could see, Sam understood.

|||

They found the building easily enough. While the information in the file had been vague, there were only so many derelict buildings on the outskirts of town in a place like Lebanon. After poking around inside for a few minutes, Sherlock led them back to the car and took off down a dirt path that led around and away from the building. 

It was obvious that the building itself had been undisturbed for a long time but several distinct tracks in the mud indicated an abnormally high amount of activity. They found the bricked entrance to an underground structure rather quickly, and after studying the plethora of footprints in the hardened mud, Sherlock came to the conclusion that this was the dwelling of at least two very large, well trained, and dangerous men. The prints themselves were several days old though, and another quick circle around the property led them to what must be the outlet of a garage revealing a set of tracks that was fresher than the footprints at the door but still very old. 

John kept silent while he worked, gun in hand and keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. It wasn’t until Sherlock led them back to the first door and he was kneeling in front of it inspecting the lock that John spoke up. “You going to pick the lock?”

“Won’t have to.” Sherlock pulled from his pocket the old key that had been provided in Mycroft’s file. If his inspection was accurate, it was a perfect match for this lock. 

“You have a key to a couple of serial killers’ subterranean lair?” John asked, and while Sherlock noted the irony in his voice, he chose to ignore it.

“Of course.” 

John huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes but left his inane questions unasked. For that Sherlock was grateful. 

When the door swung open with a groan, all traces of humor vanished. John, gun held at the ready before him, stepped into the dimly lit corridor before Sherlock. As he edged deeper into the room, Sherlock discovered that they were on a balcony, overlooking a  war room with technology that he recognized as being more than fifty years old. In the center of it all was a massive table, topped with a map of the world. One glance at John’s face and he could tell the other man had questions, but he had the sense to keep quiet. They were essentially invading enemy territory. Sherlock hadn’t picked up on any signs of life from the outside but that didn’t mean that they were alone in here.

They crept down the stairs that curled around the edge of the room until they were on the ground, standing in the archway between the first room and a much longer room filled with sturdy tables and lined with books. The library itself was a mess. Pieces of glass from a shattered lamp mingled with hunks of what used to be one of those large research tables.  

Sherlock took in the whole of the room, the unique artifacts lining shelves, the massive telescope tucked away in its own alcove, the collection of rare and valuable books. This place didn’t belong to the men of the Winchester’s reputation. 

“I don’t think anyone’s in here.” John had made his way through the room and was peering down another corridor that led deeper into the bunker. 

He stepped closer to the nearest shelf and read off a few of the titles that caught his eye. “Birth of Incorporeal Spirits. A Practical Guide to Exorcism. Cave Dwelling Creatures Native to North America.” 

“These men must be mad,” John said, stepping up beside Sherlock to read the spines along with him. Sherlock merely hummed an acknowledgment not bothering to look up. He was reading over all the books and committing them to memory when one plain looking volume caught his eye. There at the base of the spine. The distorted six-pointed star. 

His research on the subject wielded nothing of interest on what he now knew was a unicursal hexagram, also known as the Aquarian Star. The symbol itself was associated with celestial, heavenly forces and divinity. He had discovered a small footnote that suggested the symbol had stood above the gates of the legendary Atlantis. It had no significance to their current investigation as he knew it, and there was no reason why the symbol should be so firmly entrenched in his subconscious mind.

It was illogical, but as surely as Sherlock knew the radius of bloodspatter from a gunshot wound, he knew that he knew this symbol. Perhaps it was part of a case in his history, but he would not be hasty to delete anything related to his work from his mind palace. If they’d encountered this star on one of their cases together, there would be a record of it on John’s blog, but Sherlock had read the thing so thoroughly, so many times he nearly had the thing memorized. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that he’d had John with him long before they’d met. John would remember if he’d seen the symbol, he had a mind for those things when he wasn’t being arbitrarily caught up on meaningless things like people and their feelings.

After shoving away his burning curiosity, Sherlock led a brief search through the bunker. The place was much larger than it initially appeared. They did a cursory search of each room looking for any evidence of a connection to Moriarty and found none nor any person that could lead them to any. Sherlock didn’t spare the time to appreciate the shooting range, and the massive garage, or the rooms and rooms of books like John did, but something was glaringly obvious in every new room they came across. This place was not meant for just two men. Sherlock could imagine a whole organization running out of this underground lair, but something had happened to empty it. Only two of the bedrooms looked even remotely occupied.

Their search returned them to the library and upon their conclusion that no more investigating could be done until the Winchesters returned, they decided it would be best to wait. The Winchesters would return with the child eventually, and then it was only a matter of time until Moriarty made his move to claim it. Sherlock and John would be ready.

Three hours later, John was drifting off to sleep in the shelter of their bush. Sherlock had chosen it for its strategic position. From behind the thick brush, they could see the entrance of the garage as well as the door under the overhang. In all the time they’d been crouching there, barely a leaf had been stirred by the breeze and it was weighing on John, especially after the long flight. Sherlock warred with himself over waking him. He knew John needed the sleep. His friend didn’t have the practiced skill of going days without sleep for the sake of the case, and with the stress of a baby at home, John was already as exhausted as ever. Sherlock was really only concerned with John’s well being. He tried not to let himself enjoy the way John leaned into his side as he dozed and his even breaths fell across Sherlock’s hands. It was entirely too distracting. 

Ultimately, Sherlock decided to wake him with a subtle shift that ruined his balance and sent him falling awake. The Winchesters could return any minute and unwittingly deliver Moriarty to their feet. They needed to be ready. 

John blinked awake quickly, attempting to hide the fact that he’d been asleep at all. It was unclear why he bothered. They both knew that Sherlock would know the moment he dropped off to sleep. 

They sat in silence, eyeing the unremarkable landscape until a quiet buzzing drew their attention. John pulled his mobile from his pocket and stared at the screen for a few more vibrations, considering. A quick glance at the screen told Sherlock all he needed to know.

John pocketed the phone without answering and looked over at Sherlock. “We’re fine.”

Sherlock kept his eyes forward and wore his most innocent expression. “I didn’t say anything.”

“We had a fight. She said some things.” John grimaced at whatever he was remembering. “I just, I’m not ready to talk with her yet.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I know.” John snapped, too defensively. He seemed to hear it too, because soon he was trying to cover it up. “I just don’t want you to assume there’s something wrong. Because there’s not. We’re happy. We’re fine.”

“Fine.” Sherlock internally cringed to hear John say Mary made him happy. It was wrong for it to sting the way it did, he knew. All he wanted was for John to be happy. He had already sacrificed so much and struggled to forgive Mary so that John could be with her without guilt. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for him to start protesting their relationship now whether out loud or silently. 

“I just didn’t expect this to be the way things turned out.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, realizing that John wasn’t really talking to him at all. This was a habit of Sherlock’s, but when he did it, it was much more rapid-fire, less comprehensible to the outsider because no one else could keep up with his mind. As John spoke, to no one in particular, he was much more contemplative. He seemed to be searching a different part of his mind than where Sherlock went for his own answers.

“I thought we’d get married, sure. You were dead and there was nothing else for me to do but settle down and live a normal life. But then you came back like the insufferable prick you are and…” John fell silent, but Sherlock could fill in the gaps. He’d come back and wrecked John’s chances at having the normal life he envisioned for himself. He’d forced John to choose between having a family and the thrill of danger that he craved. He was still tearing John between those two desires.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He couldn’t apologize for causing a fight between John and his wife. He had nothing to offer in consolation. 

Sherlock caught the sound of a cracking branch a second too late. A gun cocked behind them and Sherlock froze. John had been reaching for his gun, but a gruff warning in a heavy American voice stopped him, “Don’t.” The Winchesters had returned. 

“Turn around.” A new voice commanded. “Slowly.” 

They did as they were bid, coming face to face with two looming men they recognized from the mugshots. Each had a gun and a scowl aimed in their direction. Sherlock took note of two much younger men behind them, watching closely but offering no immediate threat.

“What are you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the intentionally odd turn of phrase but could find no immediate explanation. When they were silent for too long, the shorter brother, Dean, reached into a pocket in his jacket. John tensed, lowering himself into a closer approximation of a defensive stance. John startled when Dean produced a flask, and not even Sherlock could’ve predicted being doused in cold water.

“What the hell?” John shouted his surprise then muttered to Sherlock, “Definitely mad.”

“Great. A couple of English douchebags. Like we need any more of those.” Dean’s aim wavered as he rolled his eyes, somehow managing to make the gesture with his whole body. The other man, Sam, standing behind his left shoulder shifted from one foot to the other as he considered them.

“Give me one reason we shouldn’t kill you right now like the rest of those Men of Letters sons of bitches?” Sam asked, stepping up so he was level with his brother. The hatred radiating from both of them was obvious, and if he was given the chance Sherlock wanted to indulge his curiosity about the obvious case of mistaken identity.

“Because it would make your employer very unhappy if I should die by anyone’s hand but his own.” 

“Employer?” Sam and Dean exchanged a look and they both seemed confused as they turned their attention back to their hostages. “And who the hell are you?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes.” He couldn’t help the satisfaction that curled into a smirk. Surely anyone in Moriarty’s employ would recognize the name and understand the situation. Moriarty would want to see them just as much as they wanted to see him. Realization lightened on Sam Winchester’s face and smoothed his pinched expression, but Dean’s insolence continued.

“That must make you Doctor Watson.” He sneered at John, who stiffened beside Sherlock.

“Ah good. You’ve heard of us.” Sherlock injected false cheer into his voice. In truth, Dean’s impudence was putting a damper on his confidence. It was entirely possible that these men were dangerous and unstable enough to kill them before delivering them to Moriarty. It wouldn’t bode well for the killers but these mounds of muscle and flannel didn’t appear to be the smartest. It was entirely possible this would come to a fight. 

Dean looked back at his brother and murmured, obviously loud enough for everyone else to hear but irreverent to that fact. “Codenames. You think?”

Sam hesitated before answering, still studying Sherlock as he said, “The other men of letters didn’t use codenames.”

“Seeing as our reputation proceeds us,” Sherlock broke in, irritation rankling at being ignored. “You’ll hand over the child and Moriarty’s whereabouts or we’ll bring the full force of the law down on your heads.”

“The law?” Sam asked at the same time as Dean blurted, “Cops?”

“Not the most awe-inspiring lot, I give you but I’m sure they’d be happy to leave you to rot in prison for your crimes.” Sherlock smiled dangerously, but the Winchester brothers weren’t even looking at him. They were exchanging a series of glances which Sherlock could interpret easily enough. The predominant emotion in their silent conversation seemed to be confusion, the source of which Sherlock couldn’t see.

With their attention divided, it presented the perfect opportunity to gain the upper hand. A glance to John revealed he was thinking the same way. A beat before Sherlock and John would’ve sprung into action, the Winchesters turned back to them, refocusing all their energy on their hostages. 

“I don’t know who the hell you are but we can deal with this inside.” Dean scanned the area as he spoke, then turned his eyes to the empty blue sky as if some attack would come from above.

They were led at gunpoint to the sunken entrance. Sherlock noticed the unnamed pair drifting behind them at a distance. When they reached the door, Sam produced a key identical to the one in Sherlock’s pocket. The brothers forced them to enter first, threats of death looming behind them. 

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the day to the dim cave, but he had his memory of their exploration earlier to keep him from running into anything. He stepped onto the landing at the top of the curving stairs, John a step behind him, and they were suddenly flying over the railing, collapsing on the long table below, not by a shove from behind but a sharp yank from an invisible hand in front of them.

Sherlock groaned at the lancing pain in his ribs, struggling to draw breath after it had been knocked so roughly from his lungs. He heard John rolling onto his side, shifting through the broken fragments of the plastic tabletop. The sounds of pounding feet and shouts filled the echoing space. When he looked over, he saw Sam and Dean wielding shining silver blades against three assailants. John was already sitting up by the time Sherlock considered getting to his feet and joining the fight. They needed the Winchesters to lead them to Moriarty and that meant they needed the Winchesters alive. Whoever these attackers were seemed determined to ruin that.

As he got his arms underneath him, Sherlock felt that impossible force grab at his legs and drag him to the floor where he landed beside a wounded Dean. John had fallen beside him, and Sam was on the ground a moment later, blade skittering away across the floor.

A serious man stepped up to them, straightening his cheap grey suit with brusque movements, but he wasn’t looking at them. His eyes were directed upward. 

“We’ve found the abomination.”


	3. Meeting Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters deal with their new enemies, but none of them are acting like they should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for StellaProcella16 who didn't forget about this fic even when I did <3

It must’ve been the rough knock to the head, but after Sam hit the ground he, for a hysterical moment, wondered if all angels only chose vessels that were wearing grey suits. Or maybe they changed when they inhabited a vessel. It was weird to imagine, an angel standing in front of its recently occupied vessel’s closet and picking out the most boring outfit they could find. Or worse, snooping around the business casual section of the nearest department store to find the appropriate attire to ruin Sam’s day.

All three angels surrounding them were in bland grey and white. Even the one closing in on Jack and Emerson on the balcony above. The haze was starting to clear from his muddled mind when one stepped forward and distinguished himself as the one responsible for holding Sam and his brother and their two trespassers hostage on the floor.

“Where is the nephilim?” 

Beside him, Dean growled as he struggled to stand, and Sam lashed out with a foot. The kick connected weakly, but they were slammed back against the ground with enough force to make Sam’s head spin again.

“We don’t have the kid.” Dean snapped, still fighting even though he wasn’t moving an inch.

“I can sense its power. You can’t hide it from us forever.” The angel leaned over them as he spoke, smirking condescendingly. He passed a critical eye over the Englishmen, assessing them and ultimately finding them inconsequential. His eyes narrowed when he looked upward, taking in the sight of Jack and Emerson held fast by one of the other angels. “Emrys, you have no business here.” 

Straining his neck back, Sam could just see the others. Emerson stiffened, and his scowl deepened. “That’s not for you to decide.”

“I assumed you were smarter than to get involved with the riffraff.” 

Years of being insulted by the likes of this asshole didn’t stop the twinge of bitterness. No matter what he did, it would never be enough to prove himself in the eyes of the creatures that looked down on them, and he knew this. It felt silly to still feel the defensiveness of wounded pride. But it was a little vindicating to hear Dean muttering, “Goddamn angels.”

“And I assumed you were smarter than to get in my way, Inezriel.” Emerson shrugged off the power that was holding him and sent the angel beside him crashing to the floor ten feet below. 

Inezriel’s face darkened and a rush off power poured over them like a gust of wind right before it slammed into Emerson and sent him flying into the wall.

“It’s you who is in the way, young wizard.” Inezriel taunted, “Isn’t there a dragon for you to tame somewhere.”

The comment shocked Emerson into stillness. His face was drawn and pale, but behind the surprise, there was murder in his eyes.

“Now.” Inezriel tightened his grip on Sam and the others. “Where is the hell spawn?”

Sam considered spouting the smart ass comment that was on the tip of his tongue, but he was still aching from the fall and wasn’t interested in doing all the taking when he couldn’t do any of the dishing out. Dean didn’t seem to have any such reservations. He opened his mouth, but the angel forced it closed before he could speak. 

“And don’t bother attempting to subvert us. The traitor Castiel was very adamant that if the antichrist was on earth, he would be with you two apes.”

“Cas is dead, dickbag.” Dean growled. The hitch in his voice was obvious, the barely concealed emotion pouring out with his friend’s name. 

Inezriel rolled his eyes and crouched by Dean’s head so he could look him in the eye when he said, “Castiel is very much alive.”

Sam could just barely see around the angel’s leg to Dean’s face. He was trying to hold it back, the hope, the devastation, but he had never been very good at that. He was blinking like a neon sign, his emotions broadcasted for everyone to see. And Inezriel was laughing. 

“We saw him die. We saw his grace flare and burn out.” Sam spoke up, a little too loudly in his haste to get the attention drawn away from Dean. “You’re not going to trick us into giving anything away.”

Inezriel turned halfway between them so he could see them both. He looked at Sam blankly for an awkwardly long moment, as if deciding whether or not he was worth talking too. 

“When the abomination was conceived, an elite group was assembled to find and neutralize the threat.”

“You mean kill him.” Sam wasn’t able to keep quiet, and was rewarded with a flash of irritation.

“We would do whatever was necessary to prevent that monster from coming into the world.” Inezriel pushed to his feet and the way he was looking down at him made Sam feel like he was an ant about to be crushed under a boot. “My predecessor thought the answer was espionage. He stole Castiel’s vessel and forced him into an empty body. He believed it would allow him to get close to the mother and access the nephilim without force. Well…we saw how well that ended for him.”

“Castiel’s alive.” Sam breathed. His eyes drifted to Dean’s. Everything he was feeling reflected back at him. Disbelief, hope, fear, determination. He’d tried to get Dean to accept Castiel’s death, had written off his loyalty as denial. In the face of the truth, Sam was awash with  guilt that was all his own. Cas had been alive all this time, and Sam had been so ready to write him off as lost.

“That’s right. And he seems to think you’re protecting the abomination.” Inezriel smirked and strode back so he could take them all in as if they were an amusing tableau. “I’m inclined to agree.”

“This guy must really like the sound of his own voice.” Dean groaned at Sam for show, then turned his unimpressed glare to the angel looming over them. “If you’re going to kill us just do it already. Cut it with the supervillian monologuing.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Inezriel promised. “I want the child. It is my duty to recapture the beast that is destined to bring hell to earth.”

“What?” Emerson caught them off guard, panic dripping from the word as it was punched from him.

Inezriel smirked. “What’s the matter Emrys? You remember prophecies don’t you? I don’t imagine you would’ve forgotten the last one to cross your path. You fought so hard to stop it but your little king still died. It was very amusing to watch.”

As Inezriel taunted, a small movement to his left caught his attention. Dean was attempting to open his pocket knife. All his struggling, it hadn’t been to break free of the angel’s grip but to shake the weapon from his pocket. His range of motion from the force holding them down was so limited he couldn't get enough leverage to open the knife. Sam met his eyes and nodded, a plan forming between them.

Sam started to cross the space between them with his hand. Moving at all was like trying to wade through drying cement. He was slow enough to avoid drawing attention to them, but the angels were too focused on Emerson.

“You were all too eager to sit out the last apocalypse. You almost let the world end once, maybe I can convince you to intervene this time. Help us find the child, Emrys.”

Sam watched them out of the corner of his eye, unable to resist his curiosity. How would Emerson’s presence have affected their battle against Lucifer? Was he strong enough to be that much of a game changer? Could he have changed the course of fate and helped Sam avoid hell? As Sam’s mind raced, his fingers worked the knife open as Dean held it steady. One long slow drag of the blade against Sam’s forearm was all it took to spill enough blood on the floor for the sigil they could use to banish the angels to Timbuktu.

Sam cast his eyes around the room as Dean drew, making sure their escape plan went unnoticed. The only person that seemed to see what they’d done was one of the trespassers. The shorter one, with graying blond hair, stared at him with eyes gaping, watching Dean swirl his finger in the blood, trying to draw the sigil blindly. Sam worked all the threats, warnings, pleas, and promises he could into a single look and thankfully the man seemed to understand. He stayed silent, and turned his wide eyes to the ceiling.

“Ramiel, show him the prophecy. Show him the devastation the hellspawn is going to bring upon the earth.” Inezriel ordered, and the angel on the landing reached out to palm Emerson’s forehead. 

Before any contact could be made, a flash of light and a wave of heat sent the angel melting to the floor. Jack shuddered under the force of his own power, eyes radiating gold. Emerson darted forward, catching him before he could crumble. 

The angels jolted into action, leaving their hostages abandoned on the floor as they rushed the pair on the balcony. Snapped free of their power, Dean shoved to his feet, abandoning the sigil and diving for their weapons duffle that had been cast aside in the fall. But with the angels gone they wouldn’t need angel blades. Sam scrambled for the sigil, but his hand was caught before he could slam it into the circle of blood. 

Inezriel stood over him, blade ready to strike. Threat, or ultimatum poised on the tip of his tongue, he choked on it as an angel blade was forced through his chest. Divine light blinded Sam for a second until the vessel’s body collapsed, and Dean was in front of him, passing off the urn of holy oil. 

“Cas.” Was all he said, before he darted for the stairs to join the fray above, where Emerson and Jack were holding off the remaining angels. And Sam understood. One of these angels wasn’t going to get to die until they told them where Cas was being held. 

Sam dumped the holy oil on the floor, aiming for a circle but he was coming too fast, Dean driving the angel his way. He used his fingers to paint in the gaps, oil everywhere. He scrabbled in his pockets, getting his lighter ready. A swift blow to the head and kick to the chest and the angel was stumbling to the floor in the center of the glossy circle. 

A spark of the lighter lit the circle just as fast as it lit his jacket. The urn splintered against the floor. Sam wrestled Dean as much as he wrestled his jacket, both trying to get it off before the pressing heat could eat away at him. They cast it to the floor together, the fabric twisting into ash, and only had a second to breathe before a shout from behind them drew their attention.

All the angels lay dead. The survivors eyed each other, chests heaving, the crackle of magic in the air dying away. Jack and Emerson descended the stairs slowly, Sam and Dean watching their every movement. When they all stood on level ground, and no one made a move to attack, Sam relaxed, satisfied that no one was injured. 

He went back to inspect the burning ring of holy oil for any weak points as the angel inside it muttered its curses. He’d been in such a rush that he’d done a sloppy job of forming the circle, but it looked like it would hold. There were pieces of the shattered urn all over the floor and he was still covered in oil. Besides the dead vessels strewn across the floor, those seemed to be the only remnants of the short fight.

Dean seemed to have moved on already, though his mind still raced in fight mode as he barked orders. “You two.” He pointed at the men calling themselves Holmes and Watson. “Empty your pockets on the table.”

The pair didn’t put up much resistance. Watson seemed to have calmed in the fight to a state of near blankness and the other stood gaping. A couple of wallets and a couple of cell phones dropped to the table before Watson set down a gun and Holmes set down a Men of Letters chapter house key and a file that was inscribed with the Men of Letters emblom. The sight of those two items removed any doubt as to where the pair came from. 

His next order was to Sam. “I’m going to lock these guys up. You keep an eye on those two.” Sam’s gaze was directed to where Jack sat at the bottom of the stairs and Emerson crouched in front of him. Sam nodded, and Dean led the docile strangers out of the room. 

When they were gone, Sam approached Jack carefully. “Hey. You doing okay?”

Both looked up as he approached and Sam was surprised to find that Emerson was looking more shaken up than Jack.

“I’m fine.” Jack said, eyes fixed on Emerson as he answered. “I don’t think they would’ve been able to hurt me even if you’d let them try.” 

“Probably not.” Sam agreed. Jack was powerful and it would take a weapon equally as powerful to hurt him. 

“I’m never going to let that happen.” The ferocity in Emerson’s voice snapped Sam’s attention back to him. He had a hand on each of Jack’s arms and was looking up at him with an intensity that Sam recognized. Devotion. Emerson hadn’t been lying when he said he would do whatever it took to keep him safe. It eased Sam’s mind a little to know they had a true ally in protecting him. But he couldn’t help wondering, would Emerson try to stop them if they took Jack’s power away? Where did this devotion come from? Was it for the man himself or the grace he wielded, the potential power?

“Stupid, Naive Emrys. Still think you’ll find your long lost king?” The angel’s cruel voice cut through the tension and molded it into something new. 

Emerson tightened his grip on Jack as he growled, “I’ve found him.” 

“That abomination isn’t your beloved Arthur. That thing is destined to bring hell to earth. The only destiny your Arthur had was to die bloody.” 

“Same as you then.” Emerson was on his feet, stalking toward the angel, but Sam stepped in his way.

“Hey, stop. We need him alive.” Sam said, his words an order and a plea at the same time. 

“Why?” He asked, looking an inch away from blasting through Sam to get to the angel.

“He has information we need.”

Emerson seemed to consider the implications of that for a long time before relaxing back. Jack wasn’t so soothed. “You’re going to torture him?”

“We’re not going to let him go until he tells us how to find Cas.”

“Your friend. The one you thought was dead.”

“The angels said he was being held somewhere.” Sam nodded. “We have to find him.”

Emerson relaxed a little more. Most of his anger flooded out of him in a rush of hot air and he went back to Jack’s side. Sam felt some of the tension leave him too. The angel was still pacing, but he was contained and Emerson was not putting up any kind of fight at being ordered around. He seemed to genuinely only care about Jack’s well being.

These last few days Sam had spent with Jack went a long way with working up good will with the young man. As long as he stayed on their side, it seemed Emerson wouldn’t cause them any trouble. He’d even helped them, showing up just before they entered the property to warn them of the intruders. He could see Dean was worked up and not ready to trust anyone by the way he stalked back into the room. They were surrounded by strangers, their home invaded once again and every time that happens, they always lose something important to them. 

Dean reached for one of the wallets on the table and flipped through it, pausing just as he was about to toss it aside. “Look at this.”

Sam stepped up to peer over his shoulder to take a look at the ID he was holding up. His eyes were drawn to the bland photo of the bland face. The card itself was innocuous. It wasn’t until his eyes flicked to the name that they widened. Watson, John Hamish. 

He dismissed his first instinct of shock. It wasn’t difficult to make a fake id. He and Dean had been doing it for twenty years. Sam took the wallet from his brother and pulled out some of the other cards. A debit card, a credit card, a loyalty card to what was most likely a grocery store, all of them bore the name John Watson. 

Dean already had the other wallet in hand when Sam went to pick it up. It was the same. Every scrap of identity in it belonged to Sherlock Holmes. Sam’s next move was for the cell phones but they were both locked. The only clues they got from them at this point was two different pictures of the same baby on their lock screens, and that they both had a few missed calls from someone named Mary. 

“You put them in the dungeon?” Sam asked as he tossed both phones back on the table. 

“Yeah, they weren’t happy about it but they didn’t put up too much of a fight.”

Sam nodded and lowered his voice slightly. He didn’t want it to be too obvious he was whispering but his question was one he didn't want to be overheard. “What should we do about the other two? Should we lock them up?”

“Where would we put them where they couldn’t bust out?” Dean frowned, turning to peer over his shoulder at the witch and the nephilim. Sam watched his face slacken and spun to follow his gaze toward the empty staircase.

“Where’d they go?” 

A crash echoed though the bunker, the sound of glass and metal shattering and clattering against a concrete floor. Sam took off toward the sound without a thought, Dean right by him, weapons drawn at the ready. For a few moments, the only sound was their rhythmic footfalls as they ran. Their angel prisoner had stayed silent in the library, no doubting expecting to be rescued, and their magic wielding guests worked quietly wherever they had stowed away. Then there was a small explosion and a strong voice, chanting a spell that wasn't latin or enochian. 

Sam and Dean picked up their pace, following the voice deeper into the bunker toward the store rooms. There was no telling what kind of spell Emerson was casting, no limit to the damage they could imagine him inflicting in their home.

They saw the golden light before they saw the two figures inside it. Jack was on his knees in front of Emerson as the witch sprinkled dry ingredients into the tiny flame of a candle, chanting his spell.

“Stop!” Dean commanded and both had their weapons trained on Emerson as they pushed through the doorway. Jack didn’t even open his eyes. Emerson only stopped his chant from a moment, made a sweeping gesture with his arm that sent the hunters’ guns flying and their bodies crashing against the nearest wall before he resumed his spell.

The golden light grew steadily brighter the deeper he got into the spell. When it was nearly so bright they had too look away, Jack slumped, sprawling on his back unconscious. Dean called out another threat, and they both struggled against the invisible force holding but not crushing them against the wall.

Emerson finished his spell, and as his last word echoed into silence, the single flickering candle flame blew out, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward him. The invisible hands holding them at bay vanished with the light. Sam regained his balance and approached the pair cautiously. He never took his eyes off Emerson as he knelt beside Jack, and behind him he heard Dean cocking his gun. 

Doubt made Sam’s hand hesitate as he reached to touch Jack’s shoulder. They didn’t know what kind of spell Emerson cast on the unconscious man. It could be anything, but flashes of memory bubbled up from his subconscious of Rowena and a favored attack dog spell. Sam’s concern for Jack’s well being overpowered his wariness, and as he shook Jack’s shoulder gently, his eyelids fluttered open.

Jack’s arm darted out, and Sam dodged out of his reach instinctively. The sound of shuffling steps told him Dean was pushing closer but stopped at a harsh warning from Emerson. Jack wasn't reaching for Sam though. His hand was clutching desperately to his chest as he heaved huge breaths, and for a moment Sam was sure that Emerson had killed him. Jack’s hand was scrambling frantically across his chest like he was looking for a wound where there wasn’t one. 

His breaths were coming sharper now more like hisses, and Sam could just make out the word he was mouthing over and over again. “Merlin.”

“Arthur?” Emerson called, stepping closer. He held up a hand in Dean’s direction, an order or a request. Whichever Dean would be more likely to respond to. A glance at Dean and Sam saw Dean reluctantly lowering his weapon.

Jack’s gaze snapped to Emerson and his frantic hands froze.

“Merlin.” Jack said and it was like the sound had been punched out of him. All of his panic from a moment ago vanished and he was on his feet in an instant. Sam watched from where he knelt on the floor as they moved together wrapping each other in an embrace so rough it looked bruising. 

“Merlin.” The name was breathed against Emerson’s neck. When he answered with his own, “Arthur” it was a laugh this time, high and light and so full of joy it almost hurt to hear.

When it finally clicked, watching them hug, Sam felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. The angel’s taunts minutes ago surfaced in his mind, the blind devotion he’d witnessed. It all made sense as he realized he was watching the legendary King Arthur and the most powerful sorcerer in history Merlin. 

Sam looked back at Dean, who made the connection moments after he had. Dean looked to the two men, then back at Sam and with a petulant turn to his lips, he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

|||

The heavy doors slid into place with a solid thunk. The sound was finality, not a hint of an echo as Dean locked them into suffocating silence. John ran his eyes over their prison, spacious and dim. The only fixtures were a single collapsible metal chair and equally flimsy metal desk, an imposing slate cabinet, and a flawless painting of a pentagram on the floor.

It was the pentagram than unnerved him most, more even than the bloodstains on the concrete floor. They’d been threatened before, wounded and nearly killed, and always made it out. John could understand the usual brand of violence, of crazy that they encountered in their job. But this…trapping people in rings of fire, blood sacrifices, heaven, hell…

John was a practical man, a realist, a pragmatist. There was no room for religion in a rational mind, a notion that had only been reinforced since he met Sherlock. John didn’t believe in magic, or God, but he knew what he’d seen, felt. He’d been thrown across the room like an empty glass. He’d seen divine light pour out of a man’s mouth as he was stabbed.

This was too much. So beyond anything he was equipped to deal with, that he stared at the sealed doors for several minutes, unable to formulate a plan. They were trapped in the hands of ruthless satanists in the middle of a holy war. John hasn’t been this terrified since Moriarty popped his gum in his face with as much cheer as when he said he was going to strap a bomb to John’s chest and light up the place like christmas if Sherlock didn’t play nice. 

There was only one way out, a set of doors hidden in sliding storage shelves. From this side, the doors sealed flat agains the steel walls. An alcove between the ceiling and the top of those walls held cardboard file boxes but John doubting anything in them would be of any use to them to escape. It seemed impossible, impenetrable, but John wasn’t alone. He had Sherlock and in all the time he’d known the man he had yet to find a lock the man couldn’t get through. 

John turned to Sherlock, ready to demand a solution, but the words died in his throat. Sherlock had collapsed to the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, and eyes wide, unseeing. 

“Sherlock!” John knelt in front of him. The sluggish way Sherlock turned his eyes to John’s face had John’s hands passing over him, looking for any signs of injury. There wasn’t any, not a drop of blood on him, but he was obviously in shock. “Sherlock, hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.”

John didn’t think he was going to respond, wasn’t even sure if he could hear him, but Sherlock’s eyes sharpened, snapping to full awareness and growing impossibly wider. “Okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to get out of here. We just need a plan.” John tried to coax him away from his anxiety. John needed Sherlock to be okay for his own sake as much as he needed Sherlock’s oversized brain back online to get them out of here. 

“I always knew you were simple but I never could’ve imagined you were this stupid.” Sherlock said in a rush of breath and an indignant noise escaped John’s throat. Sherlock ignored him though and ploughed on. “You saw those…those…things! You saw what they were capable of. They subverted the fundamental laws of physics. The greatest immutable knowledge a human being can possess and they made it moot!”

John took a deep breath and pushed himself away from Sherlock a bit. He should’ve known Sherlock wouldn’t be able to cope with something like this. The man prided himself on being the smartest alive. Having the basis of everything he thought he knew questioned sent him reeling harder than a gunshot wound. John understood but he couldn’t suppress the annoyance that pushed him to his feet. “We don’t have time for your melodramatics. We have to get out of here before they come back.”

Once the words were out, John realized how true they were. Once they were done burning that poor angel alive, the brothers would come for them. John went to the door, pushing as hard as he could. He felt along the grooves where the doors met the wall, and the floor but it was a perfect seal. Trying everything he could think of, he didn’t even gain an inch. He ended up  throwing himself against the doors, fighting desperately to get them to budge. 

“You’d have better luck shooting them open.”

John wanted to shout at him, scream every obscenity he knew to get Sherlock off his ass and get them out of there, but he held back, biting back his anger in a bitter smile. “Winchester took my gun.”

“Brilliant job Captain. You should’ve stayed home if you were going to get our only weapon taken away.” Sherlock sneered, disdain dripping from every syllable. 

John pinched his eyes closed and clenched his fists until his knuckles creaked. One more word and he was going to end up killing Sherlock himself. He breathed out an even breath and turned his eyes to the ceiling to keep from looking at Sherlock who was on his feet now, prowling at the back of the room. 

“Right. I forgot, that’s all I’m here for.” John grumbled, affecting as much sarcasm as he could even as the truth of the words stung him.

The light from above wasn’t enough to hurt his eyes as he stared upward, just a few lamps fixed into the ceiling and a slim strip of light from the alcove. That piqued his interest enough to shake him out of his anger. He dragged the chair against the wall with a harsh scrapping and hauled himself up to get a closer look. Knocking a few boxes out of the way, he ignored as they crashed to the floor, scattering their contents. There, to the right of the door, where the floor of the alcove didn’t quite met the wall.

John dragged himself onto the ledge with more effort than it would’ve taken a few years ago. His body protested the whole way up, but he ignored it, shoving aside a few more file boxes as he went. He could see light, wire shelves, and rows and rows of more boxes. The storage room that prefaced their cell. The tracks the two special shelves ran on were nearly invisible, but now that he knew to look for them, he could see them clearly. After more close searching, he caught sight of a latch, the same latch Dean had pulled before the hidden doors swung open.

He crowed a victory shout then fell back immediately, kicking himself. One of the brothers could've been standing guard in the storage room. After a few minutes of tense silence, John determined they were alone. When he returned to the crack, he tried to reach for the latch only to come up feet short. Sherlock wouldn’t have any luck either, his arms only a few inches longer than John’s. They needed something to span the distance. His first idea was to try a lid of one of the boxes surrounding him but it couldn’t get a good grip under the latch. Rolling over, he peered down to look for anything else that could help them. 

Cardboard boxes littered the floor below, files and papers in disarray. Sherlock was hunched over them, reading from an unmarked file intently. John clenched his teeth and bit out, “Terribly sorry to disturb you but do you think you might actually want to help get us the fuck out of here?”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes as wide as before and John huffed his annoyance at that wondering expression. “Demons, John.”

“I need something to trip the latch. It’s just out of reach.” John explained. They glanced around the room looking for something to help and both sets of eyes landed on the large cabinet. John rushes to clamber down and join Sherlock as he swings the cabinet doors open. Inside hangs an array of terrifying weapons John can’t even begin to put a name to. Shining crooked blades and bloodstained instruments designed for torture. 

Sherlock plucked a meathook off the rack and hefted it toward John. “This should do the trick.”

John gaped at Sherlock, just amazed as he is sickened by Sherlock’s nonchalance in the face of what all those tools imply. Sherlock is unconcerned, offering the handle more blatantly this time. Still, John took it and went to work. He and Sherlock laugh at crime scenes and joke in the morgue. This is nothing new.

The meathook does in fact do the trick and the double doors crack open. Sherlock seems more or less back to himself when he hands John the most normal looking knife, though it’s twisted and cruel looking, not just meant to kill but to make it hurt. John pushes aside his unnerved thoughts and followed Sherlock out into the empty storage room. Beyond, the hall is empty as well.

They can hear distant voices shouting between them and the only exit they were able to find in their earlier exploration of the bunker. Sherlock is already edging toward them. John watches their backs as they creep along, unwilling to get caught unawares.

John wants to ask about a plan. He hadn’t thought much farther than getting them out of that room. Sherlock must have some kind of plan, the way he’s leading them so intently. John’s about to ask when Sherlock puts a finger to his lips as if he can feel the question forming. John frowns but stays silent. 

They reached the end of yet another hallway. John trusts that Sherlock can tell them apart even if John himself can’t. They’ve tracked their way nearly back to where they were when the fight started. The voices reached them clearly now, but the conversation was anything but clear. 

“No you’re not going anywhere.” One of the Winchesters nearly growled.

“You going to try to kill him too?” The one the angel had called Emrys.

“I’m not the one that cast a frickin’ spell on him.”

“Okay, everybody relax. Nobody’s killing anyone. That’s not what he meant, right Dean?” A voice which must’ve belonged to Sam Winchester. There was a grumbled noise of agreement and Sam continued. “Heaven and Hell is still after you. Once we fix the angel warding, this is the safest place for you. They won’t be able to get to you, not while you’re in here.”

“And you’d let us stay here?” Another new voice, quiet but commanding.

There was a long silence and John and Sherlock froze, sure that they’d made some noise to give themselves away as they crept along. But then Sam spoke again, “We still need to find a way to remove your grace.”

“You can’t do that!” The voice, the one that had been fighting with Dean’s, cracked through the halls like thunder.

“They’re not going to stop hunting him. The harder it is for them to find him the better.”

“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me.” 

“You’re too powerful, Arthur. If the wrong people got their hands on you-”

“Like you?”

“Listen, you little…”

John could see the library through the doorway at the end of the hall. The shouts echoing around through the tunnels of corridors were deafening as the four men argued just ahead of them. Sherlock flattened himself against the wall just before the opening, John settled beside him. 

He caught a glimpse of the fire Sam had set earlier, still burning strong in a circle and not moving an inch from where it had been lit. The man, the angel, trapped inside the circle had his arms crossed tightly over his chest to avoid being singed. His eyes were fixed intently ahead presumably on the argument that was just out of John’s vision.

John couldn’t help but hold his breath as Sherlock peered around the wall enough to catch a glimpse of their captors. He listened for any disturbance, any sign that they had been discovered so he could be ready to fight without a moment’s hesitation. Sherlock went unseen though. John released his straining breath in a virtually silent controlled exhale. 

The angel’s eyes snapped to Sherlock, flicking to John for a moment before returning back to the others. They seemed oblivious to the angel’s discovery. He moved cautiously, though, as he unfolded his arms and looked back at Sherlock and John. His mouth worked in small nearly indecipherable movements. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, then widened as he read the man’s lips. 

“What is he saying?” John breathed, close to Sherlock’s ear. 

Sherlock jolted at the sudden sound and a shudder rolled through him. John leaned away, looking back to the angel. Whatever he was saying was unsettling enough to affect Sherlock. John needed to know.

When Sherlock turned his head toward John and leant closer to whisper in his ear, the movement was stilted. “You help me. I help you.”

The hot breath brushed against his skin and Sherlock was so close, John had to take a moment to collect himself so his voice wouldn’t shake. “He could get us out of here.”

“He might be able to tell us where Moriarty is.” Sherlock nodded. “We’ll have to put out the fire somehow.”

John looked back the way they’d come. They’d passed dozens of doors. There had to be something useful behind one of them. John was about to suggest as much when Sherlock’s body heat disappeared. John head snapped back to where he had just been standing and found him running head first into the library.

Sherlock ripped his coat off his arms and spun it to land across the line of fire. Gruff voices raised impossibly louder but they weren’t fast enough to stop him. John rushed out after him, putting himself between the fire and the two men rushing forward to stop Sherlock. The knife only gave them a second of pause before they were reaching for their guns. 

John was able to stop Sam, grappling with him after he’d knocked the gun away, but Dean darted around them, going after Sherlock. John nearly had Sam pinned, but the sound of a cocking gun and the thick rush of fear had him fumbling. Sam pinned him on his stomach and he cast a wild look toward Sherlock. 

Dean towered over him where he knelt beside the fire. Sherlock’s hands were held away from his body and raised slightly, sweat was beading at his brow from the heat, and his coat was starting to catch.

The whole skirmish had lasted a matter of seconds but the angel was gone. He’d abandoned them.

“You stupid sonuvabitch.” Dean shouted.

A small smirk curled at the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. They might’ve lost but he still had a spiteful streak. John wanted to chastise him, but Sam’s knee was digging into his back, and he was struggling to draw a full breath. 

“Go fix the warding before that one brings a whole garrison down on our heads.” Dean said, jerking his head toward the hall. Sam was running, turning out of sight, before he even got the words out. 

John sucked in a huge breath and pushed to his knees. Dean watched him rise but didn’t turn the gun from Sherlock. John cast a quick glance around for anything to help them while he had a moment of freedom. He caught sight of Sam’s fallen gun a few feet away and tensed to spring for it. Before he could, the metal went scraping across the floor toward the two men who’d stayed out of the fray. 

The thin one, with thick dark hair, Emrys, his eyes glowed gold and faded as the gun came to rest at his feet. He didn’t make a move to pick it up, but the other one, the blond did.

With gun in hand, he looked up and locked eyes with Dean, who stilled, muscles tensing even more than John thought possible as the pair stared at each other. Then the blond pocketed the gun and the tension snapped. 

Dean returned his attention to John and Sherlock. “At the table. Now.”

John and Sherlock did as they were bid, taking seats next to each other at the nearest research table. Dean considered the pair at the other end of the room for a long moment, and said, “You too.”

The one whose eyes had glowed looked indignant, ready to start up their argument all over again but the one with gun took a seat and he set aside his anger to follow suit.

“We gotta figure this shit out.” Dean huffed under his breath as he paced at the head of the table. Sam returned a few minutes later, looking harried but still calmer than when he’d run off. 

“You’re really not British Men of Letters?” Dean asked. They took in John’s lost look and Sherlock’s well crafted expression that revealed nothing of his inner thoughts and their weapons lowered fractionally.

“Look, I don’t know who you’re working for, but we’re not who you think we are.” Sam said, lowering his gun altogether even though Dean kept his firmly raised.

“You’re not Dean and Samuel Winchester?” Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer. John leaned forward a bit, encouraged by the odds now that there was one less gun trained on them. If it came down to it, John was confident he could unman Dean before he could fire.

“We’re not criminals.” Dean clarified.

“The gun you’ve got leveled at us says otherwise.” John said, and there was a huff of laughter from across the table.

Dean turned a scowl over to the others and when he looked back at them, his expression had settled into one of greater determination. “Why did you come after us?”

“We know Moriarty is after the child.” Sherlock said gravely. 

“We don’t know who the hell this Moriarty guy is but what do you know about the kid?”

“We know of its parentage and how important that makes it.” 

“Him.” Sam corrected, and brushed off the reprimanding glare Dean shot him.

When Dean looked back at Sherlock, he was still scowling. “So you know he’s Lucifer’s kid. What do you want him for?”

“Lucifer’s…” All of Sherlock’s thoughts came to a screeching shuddering halt in a train wreck that was clear as day on his face. So far this conversation has been difficult enough to navigate, but now they were on a completely different plane of miscommunication.

“Definitely mad.” John muttered beside him. The comment went largely ignored by the rest of the room but John was remembering that morning when Sherlock had been reading through the plethora of books lining the walls. Each was about some unnatural creature, mythology or religion. Suddenly it was all becoming very clear. The Men of Letters was some sort of cult.

“What do you want? To be rich? Powerful? A couple inches taller?” Dean’s eyes shifted toward John for a moment at his last suggestion. 

John bristled but wasn’t stupid enough to rise to the obvious bait. He didn’t lash out but when he spoke, his voice was laced with bitterness. “To protect the child from the likes of you,” He said, and at the same time, Sherlock said, “Moriarty.”

Dean gave another full body eye roll, remark ready on his tongue but his brother cut in, with a new urgency. “Why?”

“I find it tedious to repeat myself.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Sherlock.” John warned lowly. It was his best _Don’t taunt the man with the gun_ voice.

“I find you tedious.” Dean took a step closer to Sherlock, gun first in an obvious threat. John tensed, shifting slightly so his body was between Sherlock and the gunman, which didn’t go unnoticed by anyone.

“Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere.” Sam sighed, brushing a hand over his jaw. He dragged Dean away by the arm to a corner of the room. 

The four men eyed each other around the table as Dean and Sam stepped aside to speak argue amongst themselves. John watched as Sherlock passed a cursory glance over the newcomers, but aside from deducing the most basic information about them, he paid them little mind. His focus was on the Winchesters instead.

“Do you think they are who they say they are?” Sam asked, keeping his eyes on the men at the table.

Dean’s answer was automatic. “Do I think Pip Pip and Cheerio over there are really the most famous fictional detective in history and his sidekick? Hell no.”

“They keep insisting they are after Moriarty.” Sam said like that explained something. Dean looked at him blankly until Sam continued, “James Moriarty was Holmes’s nemesis in the books.”

Dean looks like he ready to argue when Sam rushes in before he could voice his doubts.  “You saw their stuff. It had their names all over it. And besides, it wouldn’t be the first time fictional characters have busted in here trying to kill us.” Sam pointed out. This seemed to convince Dean, as he shrugged.

“Hang on.” John’s irritation broke through the brief silence. “What the hell do you mean fictional?”

The brothers approached the table, Sam looking at them curiously. “You really don’t know?” Glancing over, John saw Sherlock looked just as lost as he was. They didn’t need to voice a reply for their confusion to be understood.

“Arthur Conan Doyle wrote stories in the eighteen hundreds about the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his partner Doctor Watson.” Sam explained. That seemed to be all he was going to say but at their narrow eyed silence, he continued. “They lived on Baker street and solved crimes together. Watson wrote down the mysteries and published them. Most of the stories are from his perspective.”

“But that…” John couldn’t seem to find words. It was too close to the truth to be a coincidence. Too bizarre to be a lie. 

John’s mobile buzzed on the table, jolting the sudden stillness that had settled over them but he didn’t reach for it. He was too intent on getting answers about this latest insanity. It couldn’t possibly be true but a small thread of doubt was fraying in the back of John’s mind.

“All of that could be gathered from John’s blog.” Sherlock said, and it was just what John needed to hear to ground him back to reality. 

“You have a blog?” Dean laughed, and he was entirely too judgmental for a man who kidnaps children and murders women.

“I think I have a copy of it around here somewhere.” Sam said. He ran through the shelves on the left wall before finding a small battered book in a dusty corner. He brushed it off and returned it to the table, dropping it in front of them. 

John scooped it up first, after catching sight of the title. A Study in Scarlet. Flipping it open, he read the opening lines and didn’t find anything remarkable right away. It wasn’t until he was halfway through the first passage that the words struck him and he dropped the book as if it had bit him. 

 _In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the_ Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers _…_

His curiosity got the better of him and he picked up the book, ignoring the eyes of the other men watching him.

_…With whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery._

The wound was identical. It even spoke of Murray who dragged him out of harms way. John skimmed ahead, read about Mike Stamford and his first encounter with Sherlock through someone else's eyes. It wasn’t a perfect match. Some details different because of the time period, some because Sherlock’s personality in reality was a lot more abrasive than in fiction. But it was all there. Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson and John’s unending amazement. 

John’s phone began to buzz again, drawing several eyes, but John couldn’t bring himself to care whoever was on the line. 

Could it be possible? This morning John would’ve given a resounding no, but after everything he’d seen today…He just couldn’t be sure. 

Sherlock took the book from his hands and examined it closely, flipping forward and backward and seeming to drink in every word. John couldn’t stand to see that dumbfounded expression on his face anymore. It was hopelessness. He turned to the brothers, who were watching him with matching looks, a tangled expression of suspicion and pity. 

His mobile paused its ruckus for a a second before it was off again. Dean leaned forward with a curse. He flipped it over, with the intention of silencing it, but when he caught sight of who was calling, of Mary’s smiling contact photo, he froze. Something like dread solidified in John’s gut at the look on Dean face as he looked at his wife. He’d seen the police reports in Mycroft’s file. He’d read about what Dean Winchester did to women he was fascinated by.

The defensiveness and unease only grew when Sam leaned forward to look at the picture with as much intensity as his brother. But then every other emotion took a back seat to the sharp backhand of shock as Sam said, “Mom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What??  
> Let me know what you think and Subscribe for the next update of what is quickly turning into a soap opera


	4. Silver and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters meet Moriarty, and Merlin and Arthur reunite properly.

“Answer it.” Dean said. The words came out much quieter than he’d intended. Watson just looked at him. “Answer the damn phone!”

Watson moved reluctantly, but he picked up the vibrating phone.

“Put it on speaker.” Dean commanded at the last minute. Watson narrowed dangerous eyes at him but followed the order.

“Mary?” Watson asked, setting the phone on the table. Dean couldn’t move, couldn’t breath as he waited for a response.

“John!”

It was really her. It took a moment for Dean to recognize her voice through the british accent she was affecting but it was definitely their mom. Dean’s mind was reeling with possible theories, explanations for how she could’ve escaped the alternate dimension she had been trapped in. Hell, maybe she’s brought a couple of fictional characters back with her. He didn’t care. She was back. She was alive.

“What’s wrong?” Watson leaned closer to the phone, face pinched in concern at the sound of her voice. She had sounded upset. Dean was too focused on his relief to hear it at first, but now he waited anxiously to hear her voice again, to make sure she was okay. Sam was in a similar state, his bruising hand clutching at Dean’s forearm.

“They came after us. Moriarty’s men. They tried to hurt Rosie! I don’t-”

“Are you two alright?” Watson’s words tumbled into hers, too desperate for an answer to listen to one. Holmes was leaning forward now too. He sounded much calmer but his face was just as twisted with worry, “Where are you?”

“We’re okay. We got out but I had to leave London. I had to make sure they couldn’t find us.”

Dean couldn’t hold back anymore. He couldn’t listen to these two strangers talk to her with so much fondness and not say anything. He knew after he’d spoken that it was a mistake. He should’ve waited for more information, until they had a firmer understanding of the situation. Sam’s tightening hand on his arm told him as much, but the words just came tumbling out. “Mom it’s so good to hear your voice.”

Mary hesitated, as Watson and Holmes watched him with expressions of horror and calculation. When she spoke, the words were stilted and self-conscious, “John? Who is that?”

“Just tell us where you are and we’ll come get you.” Sam leaned forward so he could be heard clearly through the line. There was no damage control they could do now that he’d dropped the M bomb. Watson was still regarding him with confusion and disgust, Holmes like he was trying to pick apart his brain, and the king and his wizard were sat back watching everything unfold with confusion.

“Don’t tell them anything.” John rushed out in a single breath like he was sure they were going to stop him. Dean didn’t try, but he knew he had to make John understand in some way.

“Look. I don’t care what you think of us.” Dean pressed forward like he could get through to him if he pushed hard enough. “That Moriarty guy went after her. That puts us on the same side of this now. We want to protect her just as badly as you.”

Watson didn’t look convinced. He studied Dean and Sam in silence.

“What’s going on? Who’s there with you?” Mary’s questions went unanswered.

“She’s not your mother, so what is she to you?”

Dean gritted his teeth and tried to remind himself that this man was having the weirdest day of his life. It wasn’t his fault he was being difficult in basically every conceivable way. He’d meant what he’d said. He still didn’t know who Moriarty was, but he was an enemy of Mom’s. That made him an enemy of Dean and Sam’s. Which put them on the same side as Watson and Holmes, he just had to convince Watson of that. He’d rather not hurt a potential ally for getting in his way. It wasn’t conducive to a partnership.

It occurred to him then, that all he needed was proof. The men sitting in front of him were detectives, at least one of them was, and they would respond to hard evidence. Just like they’d responded to the novel. He reached for his wallet with his free hand and fished out one of two pictures he kept stashed there. He was four years old when the photo was taken in front of their home in Lawrence, Mom’s arms wrapped around him, a beaming smile and flowing blond hair. The photo itself was worn, over thirty years old now, and treated rough for most of its life, but it’s meaning was clear.

He watched understanding dawn on their faces as they took in the photo. And when he said, “She’s our mother” he was met with confusion instead of disbelief.

“How is that even possible?” Holmes asked as Watson slid the photo away from himself, as if he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.

“She died when we were kids, and then a friend of Dean’s brought her back to life about a year ago.”

“No, that can’t be right. We met two years ago. Our wedding anniversary is next month.” Watson said, arguing more to himself than to anyone else. His voice dropped off into a whisper as his eyes sought the novel in front of him on the table. “Oh god, was that even real?”

“John!” Mary snapped through the phone, losing her patience at being ignored.

“I’m here.” He said, even though it didn’t sound totally convincing. It sounded like his mind was still lost elsewhere. John turned his gaze to them suddenly and it was a look Dean could recognize. He was trying to get the measure of him as a man, weighing all of his actions against his words, and trying to decide if he was trustworthy. Dean wouldn’t trust him if he were John, but he did his best to meet his eyes with wide open sincerity.

“Where are you?” John asked without looking away. It was enough for Dean, though, he slumped in relief and listened closely for Mary’s response.

“I followed you to Kansas. I’m at your hotel.”

“We’ll be there soon,” Sam promised John, who repeated it to Mary.

Dean watched tensely as John and Mary said their love and their goodbyes. When the phone went dark, there was a stillness about the room as everyone tried to figure out the next move.

It was Sam who took charge of the situation, a fact that would’ve irritated Dean only a few months ago. But they’d both grown so much together, Dean just followed his orders, glad to be able to stew in his confusion.

“You should get them to the car. I’m going to get these two settled so we can go. Come on,” Sam said, with a hand on Jack, no, Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur stood and where he went, Emerson, or was it Merlin now, followed. Dean didn’t try any of this gentle coaxing business. “We’re going to get Mary.” He said, stalking for the door. He could hear the other two following him up the stairs and out the door without a word. They’d stashed the Impala half a mile away so they could sneak up on these two hiding in the bushes, so it was a bit of a walk, but Dean was glad for it. He could tune out the sound of their shuffling footfalls behind him and it was almost like he was alone. And he needed a moment alone more than he needed a whiskey. Which was saying something.

This had to be one of the weirdest days he’d ever had and there were a lot of screwed up days on his record. He didn’t even know where to start his internal freakout. Lucifer Junior they’ve been dragging around was actually a legendary king. Mom was here, British, and married to a fictional character. Cas was alive.

Everything that had been dragging him down had been flipped on its head and he suddenly had so much hope he didn’t know what to do with it all. And he knew better than to trust it for a second. He’d lost his mother and his best friend in a matter of minutes. It was too much to believe that he could have them both back again. Things don’t work out for the Winchesters. They just don’t.

But then, how many times had Dean avoided the real permanent capital D Death? Sam too for that matter. The natural order doesn’t really matter much when it comes to them. So maybe, just maybe…And with the suspicious flood of good news came a steaming pile of crap. Angels and demons on their ass, some mustache-twirling villain named Moriarty after Ja-Arthur, and Beavis and Butthead behind him who needed to be put back in their book.

There was a hundred things he needed to take care of but all he could think of right then was getting mom back. She was here. She was really alive. A phone call away, just a short drive. Could it really be that easy?

He packed Holmes and Watson into the backseat and drove the brief distance to the bunker where Sam was just emerging. When he folded himself into the passenger seat, Dean asked, “They good?”

“I showed them the kitchen and the bathroom, pointed them in the direction of the bedrooms and told them to stay inside no matter what.” Sam filled him in. “I left them one of the burners with our numbers. Think they’ll be alright?”

“They’re going to have to b,.” Dean said, splitting his attention between the road and the rearview mirror where Holmes and Watson sat silently. After considering them for a few minutes, he asked, “How’d you two get out of the dungeon anyway?”

“Easily.” Holmes said. Watson smirked and shook his head like he wanted to argue, but he kept his gaze fixed out the window.

“It wasn’t designed to hold humans,” Sam suggested.

“What’s the hotel?”

“The Marriott by the airport in Kansas City.”

Dean nodded, clicked on the radio and settled in for the drive. It wasn’t long, just over an hour. He’d driven longer for a good burger, but every mile that rolled away under them had Dean growing tense and tenser, his imagination running wild with all the things they could find in that hotel room. A shapeshifter, a demon wearing his mother’s skin.

One thing that hadn’t even remotely occurred to him was the baby.

Mary let them into the room cautiously, eyeing the two strangers after embracing her husband. The baby girl in her arms watched them with a similar gaze, wide eyes watching every move they made. John pulled Mary into his arms, kissing his wife and his daughter’s heads in turn.

Mary handed the baby to John and pulled out of his arms. She took careful steps backward and Dean didn’t need to see her face to feel the tension in the air. It was suffocating.

His hand hovered over the handle of his pistol. Behind him, he heard Sam shifting, settling into a defensive stance. John was calling her name, reading her like instinct. “Mary, What’s going on?”

The bathroom door burst open and a man slid out with a flourish, an extravagant entrance for a man unremarkable in every way except the manic sparkle in his eye. “Did you miss me?” He sang.

Dean’s grip on his pistol tightened when he heard John’s rush of breath, a sharp curse. Sherlock stepped forward unarmed with a gleam in his eye that almost matched the newcomer. And Dean might not have read all the books when he was a kid like Sam, and he might not know the score like Sherlock and John, but he was smart enough to take a wild guess that this dick who had his hand on mom’s shoulder was Moriarty.

“Oh Sherlock, looks like you brought some handsome new friends to play with.” Moriarty’s face split into a sickening grin, the kind that Dean had seen on demons fresh out of hell, dripping in blood and the promise that their carnage had only just begun. The look he dragged over Dean and his brother made Dean itch with the need to shower for a week. “Could these be the famous Winchester brothers I’ve heard so much about?”

“Let her go and we might kill you quickly.” Dean offered generously.

Moriarty wasn’t too concerned by the threat. He looked at Sherlock with a disgusted curl of his lip. “Rather rough company you’re keeping these days.”

“Desperate times.” Sherlock rolled his shoulder in a careless shrug. Dean watched a smirk twist at the edge of his lip that was mirrored by the madman across the room. He looked at him really looked at him for the first time since he’d discovered him in the bush with his buddy. He hadn’t been anything but a nuisance and a smart mouth, but this exchange here? There was a wildness, a madness, and suddenly Dean wasn’t sure that their worlds weren’t supposed to intersect.

Moriarty smiled at Sherlock for a moment, but like the snap of a rubber band it was gone and he was glaring in Dean’s direction. “I’ve got guns too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of bright red. Sam had a small red dot on his chest, right over his heart, and by the look on his face, Dean had one too. Snipers. Who the hell was this guy?

The threat was enough to make him lower his weapon. Sam was slower, calculating the odds of making his shot and everyone else getting out unscathed. The answer made him tuck his gun away into his waistband. 

“That’s more like it. Now why don’t we all just take a breather so we can get better acquainted.” Moriarty tightened his claw grip on mom’s shoulder, a warning, before he took slowmeasured steps toward them. With every step, the scent of sulfur got worse. John twisted, putting himself between the baby and the windows and the approaching monster.

“Sam Winchester.” He stopped too close in front of Sam and had to tip his head back to meet his eye. “I rather thought we would have met much sooner than this. I was ready to bow to you in hell, but you disappointed me. You ended up on the side of the angels.”

“We’re not on anyone’s side.” Dean felt a little stronger, a little more centered, to hear Sam include him so easily and hated himself for needing the affirmation. He and Sam were a team, and even though it hadn’t felt like that for a long time until now, they always would be. It was the two of them against the world. Against the rest of the damn universe sometimes. And whoever this clown was that was trying to intimidate them didn’t stand a chance. They might be pinned down at the moment but they never stayed that way for long. It was obvious in the defiant tilt of Sam’s jaw, and Dean’s fist still clenched around the grip of his pistol.

Moriarty either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was staring down a force of fucking nature. He just went on like Sam hadn’t even spoken. “You left the throne wide open for the likes of Crowley. That bottom feeding snake oil pedaling spineless-” The words were choked off and quickly replaced by that horrible smile. “But that train wreck has  been rectified. Lucky for little old me, the throne is ripe for the plucking.”

Sam’s jaw went even tenser as Moriarty closed the tiny distance between them and splayed his hand across Sam’s chest. His nose almost bumped Sam’s chin as he took a long whiff of him. Dean was nearly shaking, thrumming with the protective need to rip the man away from Sammy. Sam was calm though, unfazed by the creep pawing at him. It wasn’t the first time a demon had thought they had the right to grope him while threatening his life. But Sam’s ease didn’t make it any easier for Dean.

“What do you want?” Sherlock’s voice snapped the surreal moment and turned all eyes to him.

Moriarty whispered, breath spewing over Sam as he whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “I think someone’s jealous he’s not the center of attention anymore.” His hand curled sharply against Sam’s skin, making him wince slightly, nails digging in deep enough to mark him before turning to face Sherlock.

“You already know what I want, Sugar.” Moriarty strutted back to Sherlock, tracing a gentle finger down his face. “I want little Lucifer jr. Or Mary here gets it.”

Sherlock seemed to consider his words carefully. He met Sam and Dean’s eyes in turn, then faced John. That look lingered much longer than the others as he weighed his options. Dean couldn’t resist a glance at John. He was frozen, his face pinched in a scowl as he stared back at Sherlock. Dean caught the fractional movement as his fingers tightened on the baby in the seconds before he tilted his head, barely a nod.

Dean couldn’t tell what had passed between them, but his instincts were screaming and he had enough experience with nonverbal signals to recognize it when he saw one. John was already dropping to the floor when Sherlock launched himself at Moriarty. Dean went for Sam, pulling him to the ground as the first shots from the snipers exploded into the drywall.

When he was sure Sam was bewildered but unhurt, he assessed the room. Sherlock and Moriarty grappledfrantically. John had stashed the baby somewhere, her screams were cutting through the sounds of struggle and the rain of bullets.

“Dean, the curtain!” Sam insisted and Dean was moving before he registered the words. Pulling the curtains closed cut off the snipers’ visibility and all the light in the room with it. The shots increased, firing randomly and cutting through everything within range. Little pinholes of light bled through the spots in the curtains, and when the shots finally stopped, it was bright enough to see Sherlock lying alone on the ground with smears of blood on the carpet around him. Moriarty had disappeared in the chaos.

“Sherlock!” John scrambled to his side, checking him over for wounds. Dean didn’t see if he found any but the low string of curses was hint enough.

“We got to get out of here.” Sam crawled over to Dean’s side, voicing what he had already been thinking. It was only a matter of time before Moriarty’s gunmen burst in here, and they wouldn’t be able to miss that close.

Mary flew out of the bathroom where she had crashed for cover. She dove to the side of the bed, looking under it and tearing apart the cabinet in the night table. When she came back empty handed, she went to John, clawing at his arm and demanding his attention. “Where’s Rosie?”

John didn’t even look away from where he was putting pressure on the cut on Sherlock’s arm. “John?” Mary screeched, voice broken by love and fear. “Where is she!”

The baby’s cries only got louder at the sound of its mother panicking. Growing so loud and echoing all around it was impossible to tell where it was coming from.

“The closet.” He said, voice low and barely more than an afterthought. Sam was closest, so he yanked the door open, the barest thread of light revealing the screaming child. Mary had her in her arms in seconds, soothing sounds mixed up and pouring out between sobs. Sam took her in his arms, guiding her toward the door and Mary, so distraught, let herself be led by the stranger.

With them safe on the other side of the door, Dean went to the others. He dragged Sherlock’s uninjured arm over his shoulders and practically dragged him to his feet. John was quick to support his other side. They rushed to the car, hobbling and terrifying the other guests as they passed, but they didn’t run into any more trouble.

Dean didn’t take a good breath until he was behind the wheel and the tires were squealing away.

Little Rosie was still crying away, less frantic now that she was wrapped up in her mother’s arms but just as piercing, especially in the close quarters of the car. Mary tried to calm her, whispering and singing. It didn’t do much. And as much as Dean could sympathize with the little brat, her never-ending cries were making him want to drive over a cliff. He could feel the tension in the others too, trying to calm down after the encounter and unable to with the constant reminder of fear and stress wailing at them.

It wasn’t until Sherlock said, “Give her to me” Rough and impatient, that anyone but Mary had said anything. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror to catch Mary’s skeptical expression. But John was quick to break the stalemate, “Trust him.”

The baby wasn’t any happier at being handed off, but Sherlock settled her against his chest, her little nose pressed against his neck and she quieted almost instantly. Little pouting sighs and mutterings grew silent until she slept deeply, one tiny fist wrapped in his shirt.

“You were the same way.” Dean laughed at Sam’s gaping shock. “Wouldn’t calm down for anybody but me.” It was a good memory, baby Sammy. One he didn’t get to hold onto much anymore. When their lives had been so much simpler, when Dad had actually been around to take care of them, grief-stricken and drunk, but there until Dean got a little older and was able to look after them both without him. It made him smile, until he looked in the mirror and caught sight of the reason dad was always gone and they were alone without anyone but each other. And she was scowling at Sherlock.

“Don’t.” John said, voice too hard to be a plea.

She turned her attention forward and caught Dean looking, her scowl deepening. “Who are you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean jolted at John’s shout. The man had been nothing but calm and collected through not one but two crises. The only one who didn’t seem surprised by his sudden outburst was Sherlock, who moved his hand slowly to cover Rosie’s head and muffle the noise.

“Hey.” Dean said, knuckles going white on the wheel. “Watch your mouth. Talk to her like that again and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Dean.” Sam was reproachful but not as disapproving as he could’ve been.

“Nobody talks to mom like that.” Dean said, unrepentant.

“Mom?” Mary breathed, “What on earth is going on?”

Dean looked to Sam to explain, shrugging a little, hands a little full at the moment. Sam pulled out his phone and started swiping through pictures. When he handed it to the backseat, it showed a picture of the three of them, Sam Dean and Mary tucked in close together while Sam held the camera out as far as his long arms could reach. It wasn’t far enough to get them all in the frame, but it was only Dean’s cheek that was cut off and he didn’t mind.

Mary studied the picture for a long time in silence until John wasn’t able to hold back anymore. “So is this it then? The mysterious past that I’m not supposed to ask about. The secret you almost killed Sherlock to protect.” His voice got stronger the more he went on. Dean almost broke in, made good on his threat, because no one talked to his mother like that not while he was around, but there was an edge of emotion in John’s voice that stopped him, a desperation, a vulnerability. There was more here than Dean could ever know about and maybe John, voice thick with emotion, wasn’t in the wrong. “Two grown sons and angels and demons and whatever the hell else?”

“None of this makes any sense!” She didn’t give an inch. “How could I possibly be their mother? They’re older than me!”

“How is any of this possible, Mary? The things I’ve seen today.” His laughter was bitter and brittle.

“I don’t know who she is but the woman in that photo is not me.” She said, handing the phone back to Sam like she couldn't be bothered.

The look Sam gave Dean was confusion, underlined with fear and uncertainty. Dean couldn’t look at him for long, the expression carving him up inside. He would fix this somehow, he had to find a way to wipe that pain from Sam’s eyes. So he pushed ahead, ignoring his own disappointment and started theorizing, “Doppelganger?”

“Could be?” Sam sighed, and took Dean’s lead, stowing away his crap and focusing on the problem in front of him. “Clone, maybe?”

It occurred to them at the same time, the obvious. Dean’s eyes went wide at the same time Sam jerked around in his seat and pulled out one of the many knives he had stashed on him at any given time, silver glinting in Dean’s eyes for a second before Sam lunged with it toward Mary.

She shrieked, waking the baby with a screaming vengeance. John darted for him, trying to wrestle the knife from his hands while Mary tried to fend him off. They all froze when Sam pressed the flat of the blade to Mary’s forearm. There was no sizzling, no screeching from anyone but the baby, and Sam backed off.

“What is wrong with you?” Mary shouted and John repeated the sentiment, much less diplomatically.

“I’m sorry.” Sam tucked the knife away and held up his hands in a placating, and if Dean was honest, patronizing gesture. “I just had to make sure you weren’t a shapeshifter.”

“Shapeshifter.” John repeated, anger fading into exasperation.

“You’re mental.” She breathed, heavy with realization.

Sherlock managed to soothe the baby back into silence, and he cast her a somber look. “They’re not. We’ll explain everything when we get back to the relative safety of the fortress, but until then I think it would be best if we finished the drive without any more shouting.” His words became petulant and bitchy as he patted Rosie’s back meaningfully. Dean had to fight back a snort of laughter when he saw John and Mary’s abashed faces, like scolded kids.

No more shouting ruled out talking, apparently. The married couple in the back didn't seem to have anything to say to each other that wasn’t at an absurd volume, and the pair in the front seat knew that anything else they had to say would just upset their passengers. So the ride home was quiet, in a stifled awkward way.

And Dean was grateful. He needed a minute, just one minute to catch his breath after the shitshow life had thrown at him today. He was up to his eyeball in monsters, fictional characters, doppelgängers and screaming babies. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take without completely losing it.

The only good thing to come out of the last few hours was the news that Cas was alive and kicking. And getting him back was right at the top of the agenda. Right after he dealt with the mess in the backseat.

|||

The sounds of the others returning pulled Arthur from the bedroom he’d claimed for himself at Sam’s instruction. He made it as far as the door to the library before he discovered that Sam and his brother were in no position to answer his questions. The four men that left together had returned with a woman and a baby in tow and tensions were high.

Merlin was nowhere to be found and there was something not right about that. Arthur had fallen into a nap almost immediately, exhausted after the fight, the spell, his own magic draining him. But now that he was awake, he missed Merlin like a lost limb. After being away from him for so long, all he wanted was to see his stupid face.

His memories of the last few days mixed and muddled with his memories of his past life. It felt like just a breath ago that he was going cold in Merlin’s arms. Everything was so different it was almost unrecognizable. Now the entire world has evolved so far beyond comprehension. He had been given the power of sorcery. Even Merlin had changed. Enduring Merlin. He was harsher somehow. The joy that had been withering the older they got together had all but vanished. He certainly couldn’t imagine those lines of bitterness worn so deeply into his face turning into anything but a frown. He seemed bigger too, not in stature. No, he was the same willowy figure he had always been, but his manner was larger somehow. His presence seemed to fill the room. He was an imposing force of nature now.

When he returned to his bedroom after a fruitless search, the door clicking shut once behind him and again, Arthur didn’t have to turn to know who had followed him. Maybe it was Arthur’s own newfound power, but he could recognize the strength of Merlin’s magic like a humidity. In his old life he never would’ve attributed such spine-tingling power to his favorite moron. But his old memories knew it was Merlin just as much as his new body. He could recognize the way he smelled, the sound of his breaths.

It was a comfort filling the empty air of this unknown room. It was the home he was ripped from, the people he would’ve done anything to protect, the man who was at his side more loyally than any other companion.

Most of the tension had already bled from him by the time he faced the other man. Whatever stubbornly remained disappeared at Merlin’s small wondering smile.

“I can’t believe you’re back.” The words were a sigh as Merlin approached him.

“Doesn’t feel like I’ve gone anywhere,” Arthur admitted. “Feels like I’ve just woken up from a dream.”

“A nightmare,” Merlin said, studying his clasped hands. And as much as it had unnerved Arthur, all the staring Merlin had done since they were reunited, he wanted nothing more than for him to meet his eye. He’d waited centuries, apparently, to meet those eyes.

“And there you were, all that time, pining away for me.” He wasn’t sure if it was to continue his thought or to answer Merlin’s statement, but either way his smile felt forced.

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t wait for you to be gone. I didn’t have to polish your armor, or muck out your stables, or follow you around and save your life only to get absolutely none of the credit.” Merlin’s laughter was strained. Arthur could tell how much it hurt him to joke about this. It was all still too fresh, even after all this time.

It hurt Arthur for different reasons. All he’d wanted his entire life was to be a good leader, to help his people. To know that he’d failed in that, that the world was better without him, without his many mistakes… “Was it better after I died?”

Merlin snorted, and the unattractive gesture was so familiar that Arthur was almost knocked off his feet by the rush of warmth through him. “You made peace with all your enemies. You ended the war. You ushered in a golden era of prosperity, just like the prophecy. You made the world a better place for every single person in Albion.”

“Does that include you?” The declaration had worked to soothe away some of Arthur’s fear. That’s what Merlin did. Even a thousand years ago he was the encouraging voice of strength when Arthur was blinded by his own insecurity. It felt good to know he helped his people but the feeling wouldn’t be enough until he knew that that extended to Merlin as well.

Merlin met his eyes and Arthur cursed everything he had wished for just minutes ago. He wished Merlin would look away, turn away, so that Arthur would never have to see him look like this. The emptiness in his eyes was devastating. With that look, Arthur understood everything that Merlin was thinking better than if he had voiced it with searing truth or biting sarcasm.

Merlin hadn’t wanted the world. Camelot could’ve burned. War tearing it apart. Surrounded on all sides by enemies. The world could’ve been left to ruin. None of it would’ve mattered as long as he didn’t have to let Arthur go.

“Arthur…” Merlin breathed. A prayer to never leave him, a plea, to never make him let go. And there was only one answer.

Arthur’s lips brushed his gently, and he meant it as a promise in every way he could promise anything. Everything he had, everything he could give was Merlin’s now because Merlin had given him the same a long time ago and Arthur had never noticed.

The last time Merlin had wrapped his arms around him, he’d been dying, watching the world go grey at the edges and slipping away. With Merlin’s hands on him now, he came alive again.

Merlin’s hands on him were desperate, clinging. Arthur didn’t know how to tell him that there was nothing in the world that could tear him away from him now that they’d found each other again. The words were too big, the swelling in his chest that made it hard to breathe, too pressing. So he poured everything into the way he held him. Arms wrapped around his waist so tight he could feel every shudder of Merlin’s breath in his core. He was never good with words anyway.

Arthur traced his tongue over the seam of Merlin’s plush lips. He’d seen them red berry stained and stress bitten. He knew how they curved when he smiled and spent so much of his old life watching them pout prettily. It was familiar, the shape of them burned into his mind, and terrifyingly new. The taste of them, the addicting way they quivered under Arthur’s teasing.

One aggressive attack and Merlin surrendered, melting at the feel of Arthur’s teeth nipping at his skin. Arthur let him melt, slip right out of his arms onto the edge the bed.

As he looked up at Arthur, Merlin’s entire being seemed to draw Arthur’s eye to kiss-swollen lips, from angled cheekbones and hollowed cheeks, the point of the nose to the curve of his chin, sharp collarbones to the tight pink tip of a tongue tracing lips and chasing the taste of their kiss. Arthur cradled that delicate jaw, and he couldn’t resist putting his thumb against Merlin’s thick bottom lip and pressing until his mouth fell open.

Wide blue eyes stared up at him, burning him with their adoration. Allowing every touch and obeying every useless whim. Merlin had already given him everything, sworn it all away. Arthur felt his bones grinding under the weight of that responsibility. A lance of poisonous doubt ripped through his chest. There wasn’t a single moment he wasn’t in awe of this man. He didn’t deserve everything he’d been given. He didn’t deserve to have Merlin looking up at him with this kind of reverence. Merlin was the greatest gift he had ever been bestowed and he would never be able to repay his debt to the person that allowed him to be with him again.

Arthur’s knees gave out and cracked against the hard floor as he knelt. His new power already wicked away the flare of pain, but it did nothing to protect him against the suffocating swell of emotion in his chest as he looked up at Merlin.

Merlin’s hungry gaze faded into something softer when he met Arthur’s eyes. He reached out with both hands and held Arthur’s face in a teasing mirror of Arthur’s touch moments before. It rankled Arthur’s instincts, but he knew that he would do whatever Merlin asked of him. He would renounce every title, shatter his own sword if he asked it because Merlin was the one that deserved to be revered. A thousand years alive and a thousand years of loyalty. Peaceful even when the world tried to drive him to war. Kind even though he likely bore a thousand wounds, a million. Arthur had never felt this strongly in all the years of his life, not for his kingdom or his family. It was crashing over him, drowning him with the strength of it.

But Merlin didn’t demand anything from him. He read every thought in Arthur’s mind like he’d always been able to do and smiled. Then he launched himself into Arthur’s lap and nearly sent them tumbling to the floor with the weight of his body. He was able to catch himself on the wall behind Arthur and hold the two of them up as he buried Arthur under a torrent of kisses.

Arthur’s breath was knocked out of his lungs forcefully with a garbled protesting noise and just like that Merlin pulled them out of darkness and unbearable intensity and they were laughing together again.

It took a lot of fidgeting and grumbling but they finally slotted together like it was where they’d always belonged. The hesitation hadn’t cured any of their urgency, their bodies still straining to touch and hard for it. They were together now, and face to face. Equals as they should be. There was nothing stopping them from chasing what they wanted most. Merlin had enough leverage where he was straddled across Arthur’s lap to start a fevered grind against him. With every press against his cock, Arthur was shoved closer to the edge.

“Oh god, Arthur.” Merlin gasped against his neck, and Arthur couldn’t stand his idleness any longer. With a burst of movement, he grabbed on to Merlin’s thighs and stood from the floor. He didn’t make it far, unbalanced and unprepared for Merlin’s full weight, they crashed onto the mattress. But the move landed him between Merlin’s spread legs and there was nothing to regret even as Merlin laughed at his clumsiness.

The laugh was gone as soon as it surfaced as Arthur ripped at his jeans. The next few minutes were a scramble of wrestling with clothes until Merlin seemed to remember his magic. As quick as Merlin’s eyes could flash gold, their clothes were gone and Arthur was left mesmerized by the dying shine. Merlin froze, uncertainty written all over his face. Arthur hated that he had put it there and did his best to wipe it away with a kiss.

Merlin relaxed under him and Arthur was lost. The drag of skin against skin, the press and pull of two bodies, the sound of Merlin’s breath hypnotized him. They moved together so fluidly like he always knew they would until it was too much. Merlin came undone under Arthur’s hands and Arthur was quick to follow.

Arthur settled back into his own skin as their breaths calmed. Merlin fell hard into sleep the moment Arthur had curled around him and he wondered how poorly he had been taking care of himself out there alone in the world. He seemed at peace now, though his fingers were still tight where they held Arthur like he was worried even subconsciously that Arthur would disappear. Arthur would do everything he could to dispel that fear. He’d been given a second chance at life and a second chance with Merlin. He would be damned if he was going to waste it.

He hadn’t managed to sleep for long before there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Enter,” He called, too used to the servants seeing him in all states of undress to be bashful. It wasn’t until Sam was yanking the door closed behind him stuttering out his apologies and looking more bashful than a grown man should be capable of, that Arthur woke fully and realized he was not only naked but wrapped up in his equally naked lover. As immensely happy as it made him to wake with Merlin in his arms, he knew whatever business Sam had come to him for might be pressing, so he extracted himself from Merlin’s deceptively strong grip and draped an old robe he’d found over his shoulders. He considered not bothering with tying it closed so he could slip out of it and return to Merlin that much more easily, but Sam had been so taken back by the brief glimpse of nudity he’d seen earlier, Arthur decided it was better not to risk offending his friend’s apparently delicate sensibilities.

He found Sam pacing in the hallway, seemingly torn between trying to speak to Arthur again or leaving him to his privacy. The sight of him put Sam at ease just as quickly as it raised embarrassment to his face.

“Was there something you needed?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t think you would be-” Sam gestured to the bedroom door then seemed to drag himself out of it. “Anyway, I just wanted to check on you. You’ve been through a lot the last few days and with the new memories, I wanted to make sure you’re adjusting okay. But from the looks of it…

“Yes, Merlin has made the transition much more tolerable.” Arthur smiled at the thought of his sorcerer and Sam matched it, a proud knowing smile.

“Well, good. I’m glad you’ve got someone.” Sam crossed his arms and a new teasing edge entered his smile. “So is that a new thing or were you guys always…?”

“No.” And then it was Arthur’s turn to stutter with embarrassment. “We would have never…I was a happily married man.”

“Queen Guinevere.” Sam nodded, and it was still strange to hear facts of his life stated so confidently from someone who should have no knowledge of such things. To think that his life had been so remarkable that it was still known a thousand years later was humbling.

“Yes. I loved Gwen deeply and that should never be doubted, but-” Arthur stopped, unsure if he should continue or if it would feel too much like a betrayal to his wedding vows.

“But?” Sam arched his brows and Arthur felt the urge to indulge his curiosity. He wanted to talk about it with someone. He’d been keeping this feeling buried so deep inside him for so long he wanted nothing more than to express them to the willing ears of a friend.

“Being with Merlin always felt more right than anything else in my life. Maybe it was the prophecy or maybe it was just the man, but it was always Merlin for me. My closest companion, my confidant, my advisor. He was the one person I would’ve done anything to save. I would've gone to the ends of the earth for, happily. I loved my wife with all my heart but my soul belonged to Merlin.” Arthur felt lighter for saying it, and with the words an old resolve solidified inside of him. Nothing was ever going to keep them apart.

“I think I know what you mean,” Sam said, quiet and thoughtful. His mind had clearly gone somewhere else, to the other half of his soul, to the one person he would do anything on the planet for. Arthur had an inkling of where his thoughts lay, but he didn’t want to embarrass the man by voicing something inappropriate.

“I didn’t dare act on it in my lifetime. We would never have been accepted in that time perhaps it was cowardly.” Arthur quietly admitted to sam, who was drinking in his every word with intense focus. “Having him back now, knowing how much time I wasted. It is my greatest regret. That I never fought for us. And I never let us be truly happy because I thought what we had was the best I could ever have.”

“Would you do it all differently if you had the chance?”

Arthur gave as much consideration to his answer as Sam seemed to be. He nodded once, the strength of his conviction undoubtable, “Without hesitation.”

Sam nodded, trying to convince Arthur or maybe himself that he wasn’t so invested in what Arthur was telling him. With any luck the man would accept it if not publicly then at least to himself that what Arthur said was true.

“Taking this new step,” Arthur stumbled, memories of Merlin beneath him pulling him away from the present. “Being with Merlin this way, it should’ve been obvious but it wasn’t. Those feelings didn’t come later until it was too late. He was my best friend, a comrade in arms, a brother. But who better to spend the rest of your life, lives, with than the man you trust more than anyone in battle beside you. Do you understand?”

Sam narrowed his eyes, suspicion clouding his features before realization widened his eyes and he was stricken gaping and speechless.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” Arthur smirked and retreated back to his room, where he found Merlin lying awake and listening in.

“That was nice of you,” Merlin said in a curious way, turning the statement into a question.

“I’m nice.” Arthur stripped the robe and returned to Merlin’s side as he snorted his disagreement. Arthur leaned away, indignant, “I can do nice things.”

“I’m sure.” Merlin didn’t sound entirely convinced and to make him pay for it, Arthur smacked his naked thigh. Melin let out a squawk that turned into a laugh as Arthur pulled him into his arms and kissed the spot he had just abused.

“See, I can be nice.”

“Why don’t you demonstrate some more?” Merlin teased, stretching to expose more of his moonlight skin. Arthur obeyed eagerly, kissing frantically and mixing in little nips just to hear him shout again.

When they had settled, and Arthur breathed a contented breath into Merlin’s chest, Merlin asked quiet and unsure, “Did you mean what you said to Sam?”

Arthur hated that there was enough doubt in Merlin’s heart to force him to ask, cursing himself for ever putting it there with his inaction in the past. He pressed a rough kiss to the skin over Merlin’s heart as if his lips alone would be enough to cast out the poison. Then he breathed into his skin, as he should’ve all along, “With everything in me.”

“I love you, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice caught on the words making them thick and broken with emotion, but when Arthur answered, his voice had never been steadier. He had never spoken a fact more true. “I love you, Merlin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Merthur :D
> 
> Subscribe for more shippy goodness with heaping piles of delicious drama


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